Maigret Enjoys Himself

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you know him personally?’

  ‘I’ve met him two or three times, but we lost touch several years ago.’

  ‘What is he like?’

  ‘Do you mean professionally?’

  ‘To begin with, yes.’

  ‘A sound practitioner, very skilled. He is around forty, forty-five maybe. A handsome man. The only thing that could be held against him, if you count it as a fault, is that he has specialized in private practice for the well-to-do. He didn’t set himself up in Boulevard Haussmann for no good reason. I guess he makes quite a packet.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘So the papers say. I didn’t know. Look here, Maigret, I hope that you’re not planning to rush back to work to take over this case.’

  ‘No, I promise. What about the other doctor who was mentioned?’

  ‘I’m not the only one who has been ringing around among my colleagues this morning. It’s quite rare for something like this to happen in our profession, and we are as nosy as concierges. Like most doctors who take a holiday, Jave employed a young locum to cover his absence. I don’t know him personally and don’t think I’ve ever met him. His name is Négrel, Gilbert Négrel. He is around thirty and is one of Professor Lebier’s assistants. Good credentials, as Lebier is said to be very fussy who he chooses for his team and difficult to get along with.’

  ‘Are you very busy?’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘In general.’

  ‘It’s quieter than usual, with most of my patients away on holiday. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’d like you to find out as much as you can about these two medics.’

  ‘Are you forgetting that you’re on leave, on doctor’s orders?’

  ‘I promise that I won’t set foot in police headquarters.’

  ‘Which doesn’t prevent you meddling in this case as an amateur sleuth, is that it?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘OK. I’ll make a few phone calls.’

  ‘Maybe we could get together this evening?’

  ‘Why don’t you and your wife come and have dinner at the house?’

  ‘No, dinner’s on me. I’ll take you and your wife out to a bistro somewhere. We’ll pick you up around eight.’

  All at once, Maigret was no longer the man he had been that morning. He had stopped daydreaming and feeling like a child having a day off school.

  He returned to his seat on the terrace, ordered another beer and thought about Janvier, who must be terribly excited. Had Janvier attempted to ring him at Les Sables-d’Olonne to ask his advice? Almost certainly not. He would be dead set on solving the case all on his own.

  Maigret was eager to know more, but given that he was no longer behind the scenes he would have to wait for the afternoon papers, just like the rest of the general public.

  When he returned home for lunch his wife looked at him with a frown. She already suspected something was afoot.

  ‘Did you bump into anyone?’

  ‘No one. I just rang Pardon. We’re taking them out to dinner tonight in a bistro. I’m not sure which one.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I’m on fine form.’

  And so he was. The short piece in the newspaper had given his holiday a sense of purpose, and he wasn’t at all tempted to go into his office and take the matter in hand. For once he was simply an onlooker, and he found the situation amusing.

  ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk down Boulevard Haussmann and thereabouts.’

  She didn’t protest, didn’t ask him why. They enjoyed a leisurely lunch without having to look at the clock, sat in front of the open window, and this was a rare treat. Even the noise of Paris was different from usual. Instead of the familiar cacophony they could make out distinct sounds, such as a taxi turning a street corner or a lorry pulling up outside a house.

  ‘Are you taking a nap?’

  ‘No.’

  While she did the washing-up and got changed, he went out again to buy the evening papers. The case now merited banner headlines.

  A NEW PETIOT AFFAIR

  A WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN A CUPBOARD

  TWO DOCTORS QUESTIONED

  The best of the articles, written by young Lassagne, one of the sharpest reporters around, said:

  A criminal affair that will resound far and wide and will no doubt have many more surprises in store has shattered the calm of one of Paris’s most elegant streets, Boulevard Haussmann, between Rue de Miromesnil and Rue de Courcelles.

  Despite the lamentable reluctance on the part of the police to pass on any information, we have been able, through our own investigations, to establish the following facts:

  The third floor of 137A Boulevard Haussmann has been occupied for the last five years by Doctor Philippe Jave, 44, along with his wife and three-year-old daughter.

  The Javes occupy both apartments on this floor, one of them serving as a waiting room and luxurious consultation rooms, for the doctor’s patients are drawn from the most elegant strata of society, and many figure in Who’s Who.

  On 1 July the Jave family, accompanied by their child’s nurse, left Paris for a six-week holiday in Cannes, where they had rented the Villa Marie-Thérèse.

  On the same day, a young doctor, Doctor Négrel, took his colleague’s place during consulting hours.

  Normally, apart from the nurse, the Javes have two maids. One of them, who has family in Normandy, took her holiday at the same time as her employers, and only Josépha Chauvet, 51, stayed on in Paris.

  As the residential apartment was empty, she only had to take care of the surgery.

  Doctor Négrel, a bachelor living in furnished rooms in Rue des Saints-Pères, came every morning at nine o’clock, took note of any phone calls, went on his rounds, had his lunch in a restaurant and, at two o’clock, returned to Boulevard Haussmann for afternoon surgery.

  Around six o’clock he was free from his duties, and Josépha Chauvet took the opportunity to go to her daughter’s, where she usually spent the night. She lives in the neighbourhood, Rue Washington.

  So what happened? Because the police are being so tight-lipped, it is difficult to reconstitute the chain of events, but a certain number of facts can be established.

  Last Saturday Doctor Négrel left the surgery at Boulevard Haussmann at 5.30; Josépha was still there. During the course of that afternoon he had seen half a dozen patients, but no one in the building had spotted any un­­usual comings or goings.

  On Sunday Doctor Négrel visited friends in the country while Josépha spent the day with her daughter in Rue Washington, only returning on Monday morning at eight o’clock.

  She began, as usual, by vacuuming the waiting room.

  It was only when she reached the third room that she was struck by an unusual smell, which she described as ‘sickly and disgusting’, though she wasn’t unduly concerned at first.

  Finally, a few minutes before nine, intrigued, she opened the door to a fourth, much smaller room, which had been converted into a laboratory. That was where the smell was coming from – or, more precisely, it was coming from a cupboard.

  The cupboard was locked. The key wasn’t in the lock. As Josépha was examining the cupboard she heard some footsteps behind her. Turning round, she saw Doctor Négrel arriving.

  Did she give a start? Did she turn pale? The indirect witness accounts that we have gathered are contradictory on this point. He allegedly said to her:

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  She reportedly replied:

  ‘Can’t you smell it?’

  Apparently she thought it was a dead rat.

  ‘Did Doctor Jave leave you any keys?’

  Of course, we are simply piecing together the facts as best we can. A few minutes later Josépha left the building to go to fetch a locksmith on Rue de Miromesnil and she returned with him.

  As he read this, Maigret wondered where Lassagne could have dug up all these details. It wo
uldn’t have been Josépha who talked to him, he would swear to that. Still less Doctor Négrel. The concierge? It was possible. Maybe, later, the locksmith? He read on:

  When they finally got the door to the cupboard open, the sight that met them was that of a completely naked woman, who had been bent double to squeeze her into the narrow space.

  In the absence of Detective Chief Inspector Maigret it was Inspector Janvier who arrived on the scene, followed by the pathologist from the prosecutor’s office, while the press, for reasons we have so far been unable to ascertain, were kept at a distance. There was no difficulty in identifying the body, as it was that of Madame Jave herself, whom everyone believed to be in Cannes.

  Apart from a bruise on the right temple, which could have been caused by a fall, the body displayed no signs of violence.

  Doctor Négrel claims not to have seen Madame Jave either on Saturday or on any other day since 1 July, when Doctor Jave and his wife set off for Cannes.

  Josépha has apparently made the same statement.

  So how was the young woman killed? And when? We believe that the pathologist places the time of death on Saturday.

  At midday on Monday Doctor Jave was informed by telephone and caught a plane to Paris from Nice.

  He spent the night, along with Doctor Négrel, at the Police Judiciaire. We have no details of their statements.

  Even this morning the police refused to confirm whether either of the two men has been arrested.

  Examining Magistrate Coméliau is in charge of the case, but he has been even less forthcoming than Inspector Janvier.

  Our correspondent in Cannes has tried to make contact with the nurse, Mademoiselle Jusserand, who stayed down there with the child, but he was unable to gain access to the villa, which has already been visited twice by the Flying Squad.

  Clearly, this is one of the most mysterious cases of recent years, and there will no doubt be further dramatic developments.

  Who killed Madame Jave? And why? Why was her completely naked body stashed in a cupboard behind her husband’s consultation room?

  While we await the repercussions that will inevitably follow, we are able to provide some information about the characters involved in this drama.

  Doctor Philippe Jave, 44, was born in Poitiers. After successful studies at the École de Médecine in Paris, he became a hospital trainee.

  Prior to his marriage, he practised in Issy-les-Moulineaux. His surgery was a modest one, and his patients were mainly workers from the nearby factory.

  Five years ago he married Éveline Le Guérec, sixteen years his junior, who was therefore twenty-eight at the time of her death.

  The Le Guérec family own a canning plant in Concarneau: housewives will be very familiar with the ‘Le Guérec et Laurent’ brand of sardines.

  Soon after the marriage the newlyweds moved to a luxury apartment on Boulevard Haussmann, and Doctor Jave quickly established himself as one of the most sought-after doctors in the capital.

  Two years later, Monsieur Le Guérec Senior died, leaving the family business to his son Yves and his daughter.

  The Javes have a three-year-old daughter, Michèle.

  As for Doctor Négrel, he too is a talented doctor. Aged thirty, he is a bachelor and still occupies his student rooms on Rue des Saints-Pères, where he leads a modest life.

  He has not set up in practice but works with Professor Lebier. This is the first time he has agreed to stand in as a locum for one of his colleagues.

  We have tried to establish whether the Javes and Doctor Négrel were on friendly terms prior to this arrangement, but we have received no reply to our inquiries.

  At every turn – be it Quai des Orfèvres, Boulevard Haussmann or within the medical profession – we come up against a strange wall of silence.

  Even the concierge has been unforthcoming and is merely willing to affirm that she was unaware that Madame Jave was in the building.

  However, our correspondent on the Côte d’Azur has uncovered some information, albeit slim pickings. On Saturday morning at Nice airport a passenger corres­ponding to the description of Madame Jave was reportedly seen boarding the 9.15 plane, due to arrive at Paris Orly at 11.15. The airline refuses to confirm whether or not her name appears on the passenger list.

  At the time of going to press, Doctor Paul is conducting a post-mortem.

  When Maigret got back home he carefully cut out the article and slipped it inside a manilla folder, as he did when he was opening a file at Quai des Orfèvres. Except that, in the office, his files would contain original, authentic documents, whereas here he had to be content with more or less fictionalized cuttings from newspapers.

  ‘Are you ready, Madame Maigret?’

  She emerged from the bedroom dressed in a light cotton dress, a small white hat on her head and white gloves on her hands, and as they walked along the street arm in arm they looked every inch like a couple on their holidays.

  ‘You seem to be starting to enjoy yourself,’ she remarked with a sidelong glance in his direction.

  He didn’t reply but merely smiled, not thinking about poor Madame Jave but imagining Janvier at the sharp end of this case, which he must be dead set on solving all on his own.

  2. Dinner at Père Jules

  ‘Calvados for everyone?’ he asked as he drew his pipe out of his pocket, just as the waitress in the white apron was bringing the coffee.

  He understood the look his wife gave him, and the more furtive look she then gave Pardon. He wasn’t drunk, not even slightly the worse for wear. He couldn’t have drunk much more than the others, but he was nonetheless aware of a certain sparkle in his eyes, and a relaxed manner of talking that wasn’t usual to him.

  Twice during dinner Madame Maigret had observed him tenderly, first when he had ordered fried whitebait, then when he had asked for grilled smoked sausage with pommes frites.

  She had recognized the restaurant, in which they had not set foot for twenty years and which they had visited on only two previous occasions. The sign still read ‘Chez le Père Jules’. The wooden tables had been replaced with plastic versions in garish colours, and the bar inside had been modernized. The most extraordinary thing was that Père Jules himself was still there and didn’t seem to have aged at all, so much so that, with his mop of white hair, he looked like a film extra in a wig.

  Although they had come to Joinville in Pardon’s car, it was Maigret who had chosen the restaurant, opposite the Ile d’Amour, around which boats and canoes glided.

  There was a dance taking place nearby, and its jaunty tunes were mingling with music from the restaurant’s record player. There were not many customers, and most had slipped their jackets off; quite a number were people from the neighbourhood who had dropped in.

  Now, wasn’t Maigret sticking to the programme he had mapped out for his holiday?

  ‘There are things that everyone talks about, even writes songs about, but never gets round to doing,’ he had declared at the start of the meal. ‘One example is eating fried whitebait in a bistro on the banks of the Marne. Tell me, Pardon, how often have you eaten whitebait on the banks of the Marne?’

  The doctor had searched in his memory. This had amused his wife, who had replied:

  ‘Once, before my husband went into practice.’

  ‘You see? We’ve done it twice. By the same token, we talk about wandering the streets of Paris, arm in arm ...’

  ‘But we never have the time, alas!’ Pardon had sighed.

  ‘Well, this time, I’m taking the opportunity. What do you think we did this afternoon? We took the bus to Place Saint-Augustin, and, wonders never cease, the bus was almost empty. We didn’t encounter a single traffic jam. Then we walked back via Boulevard Haussmann ...’

  ‘Without stopping?’

  ‘Without stopping.’

  Maigret had looked at Doctor Jave’s house, of course. A group of curious onlookers had gathered outside the varnished carriage gate, and a uniformed police officer was w
atching them in a bored fashion. It was the first time in a case such as this that Maigret had found himself on the side of the gawpers, and he found that amusing. The house stood between an oriental carpet shop and the shop front of a milliner’s, which must have been very expensive, as there was only one hat on display.

  It was just the sort of well-to-do, bourgeois, slightly old-fashioned building he had imagined.

  After that they had continued on foot as far as Place des Ternes, where they had had a drink on a terrace before returning via Avenue de Wagram and the Champs-Élysées just like provincial tourists visiting Paris.

  ‘Splendid!’ Maigret had said as he had put together his strange meal.

  His wife’s first knowing look had been because this was exactly the same menu he had ordered the last time. Everything seemed to delight him: the music, the couples going into the dance, the canoeists on the Marne, the slowly descending dusk. You could sense that he would have liked to take his jacket off like the others but didn’t dare, perhaps because of Pardon.

  And the look she had given Pardon said:

  ‘You see how much better he is!’

  It was true that he felt relaxed, as if rejuvenated. What the others were not aware of was that back in the spring he had got himself into a worse state than he would care to admit, even to himself. He would find himself worn out, exhausted by nothing at all, and was beginning to wonder whether he might end up like Bodard.

  Bodard was a colleague of his from Special Branch, a decent man, conscientious to a fault, who had found himself the victim of undeserved attacks. Maigret had stood up for him the best he could, but there were grubby political interests behind this whole affair, and certain people high up needed Bodard as a scapegoat to exculpate themselves.

  And they got away with it. Bodard had fought back for six months, attempting to save not so much his job as his very honour, but one morning, while mounting the staircase at Quai des Orfèvres, he had simply keeled over, dead.

  It was perhaps because of Bodard that Maigret had decided to take this holiday and to allow himself the little pleasures he normally didn’t get to indulge in.