Maigret Enjoys Himself

by Georges Simenon

  He almost missed the newspaper seller reaching out a hand, and as on the previous day, he bought two rival evening papers.

  ‘Shall we sit somewhere and take a look?’

  Madame Maigret cast a worried look at the riverside bars, which all seemed rather insalubrious to her.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. They are good people.’

  ‘All of them?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. It was true that scarcely a week went by when they didn’t fish a body out of the canal. Apart from that ...

  ‘Do you think the glasses are clean?’

  ‘I’m sure they aren’t.’

  ‘But you drink out of them anyway?’

  There were only three tables on the terrace he chose, with a view of a barge unloading bricks. Inside, a young man in a black sweater and espadrilles was leaning on the bar and speaking to the landlord in a quiet voice.

  Maigret ordered a brandy for himself and a coffee for his wife, knowing she wouldn’t drink it.

  DISTURBING TOXICOLOGY REPORT

  He had already read about that in the morning papers, except that since then Lassagne had had time to finesse the detail by interviewing several well-known doctors. Their opinion more or less matched that of Pardon: it was possible a mistake had been made, but unlikely.

  Lassagne had discovered a precedent in the newspaper’s archives. It was the case of a doctor in the south of France at whose house the body of one of his patients was found, also locked in a cupboard.

  In court the doctor had claimed he had made a mistake and had used the wrong phial. At the sight of the dead body, he had panicked.

  ‘I was afraid that the maid would come into my surgery and see the body. I had done something really stupid. To give myself time to think, I shoved him into a cupboard.’

  He was riddled with debts. They never discovered the patient’s wallet, which contained a tidy sum, and the doctor was sent to prison.

  Did Lassagne know that Jave had debts too? If he did, he didn’t mention it. Instead his article introduced a new subheading:

  Where was Josépha?

  And so Maigret had the answer to the question he had posed that morning. Without being too conceited, he allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction, because he hadn’t got it wrong, even though he had no more information to work from than any other member of the public.

  Lassagne explained the issue of the two apartments and the two facing doors. Having cleaned the professional quarters in the morning, Josépha did indeed cross the landing and spend the afternoon in the other apartment. The doorbell alerted her when someone needed to get in across the landing.

  On the Saturday when the events took place she was in the living quarters, where, as on every day, she had opened the window and done some dusting.

  Lassagne had made more progress because Maigret’s phone call had tipped him off. Three times he had tried to enter the building without being seen by the concierge. Twice she had intercepted him. On the third occasion he had managed to reach the lift without being seen.

  So it wasn’t impossible that Éveline Jave had managed to go upstairs to her apartment without the knowledge of the concierge.

  Could it then be deduced that Jave might have done the same and then left the building in similar fashion?

  And someone, besides, had left the building with a package under their arm, because the young woman’s clothes had disappeared. Had they asked the concierge whether Doctor Négrel had been carrying a package when he left?

  ‘Do you think it was an accident?’

  Madame Maigret was becoming fascinated by the affair, even though she was affecting an air of indifference.

  ‘Anything is possible.’

  ‘Did you read what they said to the fiancée?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  That was on page three of the paper he was reading. A photo of a nice-looking girl with an open expression wearing a spotless shirtdress. She was looking straight into the camera.

  The title read:

  WE ARE TO BE MARRIED IN THE AUTUMN

  She didn’t say, ‘We were to be ...’ She was an optimist, confident in herself and in her fiancé. ‘We are to be ...’

  Lassagne can’t have slept much for four days, judging by the amount of work he was getting through.

  Yesterday evening we managed to meet with the fiancée of Doctor Négrel. We caught up with her at her house, or rather her parents’ house, as she lives with them.

  She is Mademoiselle Martine Chapuis, the only daughter of Noël Chapuis, the famous lawyer.

  Neither Maître Chapuis nor his daughter had any reservation about welcoming us into their apartment in Rue du Bac, a short hop from Rue des Saints-Pères.

  In fact, the lawyer graciously granted us the opportun­ity to talk one-to-one with his daughter, thus giving her complete freedom to answer our questions.

  Martine Chapuis, 24, is what is known as a modern woman, in the best sense of the word. After completing her law degree, she studied philosophy for a year at the Sorbonne and then switched to medicine, in which she is now in her third year.

  Intelligent, with a lively curiosity, she is also an accomplished athlete: she skis each winter and is a qualified physical education instructor.

  Far from being downcast at recent events, the young lady before us was brimming with confidence, almost smiling.

  ‘It’s true that Gilbert and I have been engaged for six months. We have known each other for a year. It was a few months before I introduced him to my parents, but they trust him as much as I do myself.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘At Professor Lebier’s house. I am on his course, and Gilbert works as his assistant.’

  ‘Do you intend to continue with medicine and work with your husband?’

  ‘That’s our plan. I hope to assist him at least until we have children. Afterwards, we’ll see how it goes.’

  ‘Did you know Madame Jave?’

  ‘I never met her.’

  ‘Has your fiancé talked about her?’

  ‘Only in passing.’

  ‘Did he talk about her as if she was a friend?’

  ‘You can be more direct if you wish. I know where you are going with this. What you want to know is, was Madame Jave Gilbert’s lover?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of posing the question in such a bald way.’

  ‘Why not? It’s the question on everyone’s lips. It’s quite understandable. It is obvious that Gilbert had mistresses before he knew me, and I’m not sure he didn’t have any afterwards. I don’t get jealous about that sort of thing. As for Madame Jave, however, I’d be surprised if there was ever anything between them.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because of Gilbert’s character. The thing that interests him most is his work.’

  ‘More than you?’

  ‘Probably. He could have set up in practice years ago but he prefers the research he does with Professor Lebier. He’s not interested in money. He has few needs. You’ve seen his apartment.’

  ‘I know you went there.’

  ‘I don’t hide the fact. I didn’t even hide it from my father. We love each other. We are getting married in the autumn. I don’t see why, if I want to see him, I shouldn’t go round to his place. We aren’t still living in the era of chaperones. Gilbert has had mistresses, as I’ve already said, but he’s always avoided liaisons that entail complications or are a waste of time.’

  ‘He might have loved Éveline Jave. You can’t control love.’

  ‘In that case I would have noticed.’

  ‘Have you made any attempt to see him since he was questioned by the police?’

  ‘I phoned him several times. As it happens, we spend large parts of the day on the telephone. If I haven’t gone round to Rue des Saints-Pères, it is because he is trying to keep me out of this as much as possible, and there are photographers camped outside his home round the clock.’

  ‘How did your father react?’

/>   A brief hesitation.

  ‘He was upset at first, since it is never pleasant, especially for a lawyer, to be mixed up either directly or indirectly in events of this kind. We had a chat about it. My father and I are great friends. He was the one who phoned Gilbert to offer his services if he needed them.’

  ‘Did he give him advice?’

  ‘I didn’t listen to their conversation. What I do know is that if Gilbert is interrogated again by the examining magistrate, as is likely, Papa will accompany him as his lawyer.’

  ‘Did you see your fiancé on Saturday evening? I presume you normally spend Sundays together.’

  ‘I didn’t see him on Saturday evening, because my parents and I left Paris around Saturday lunchtime to go to the country. We have a cottage in Seineport, where we stay at the weekend. Gilbert came and joined us on Sunday morning by the first train. He doesn’t have a car.’

  ‘Did he seem preoccupied?’

  ‘He was the same as usual. We spent part of the day canoeing, and Papa, who had to be in work early on Monday morning, drove him back to Paris that evening in his car.’

  ‘Did you ever visit your fiancé in Boulevard Haussmann?’

  ‘Once. I happened to be in the area. I wanted to see where he worked. I enjoy getting a feel of the atmosphere around him wherever he is so that I can picture him in my mind’s eye.’

  ‘Were you seen in by Josépha?’

  ‘By the maid, yes. I didn’t know then that her name was Josépha.’

  ‘Did you sit in the waiting room?’

  ‘Like a patient. There were two people in front of me.’

  ‘Did you go into any other room apart from the main consulting room?’

  ‘I visited all the rooms.’

  ‘Including those in the apartment?’

  ‘No. I mean the professional rooms. The ones on the left.’

  No embarrassment. No hesitation. We pressed the point:

  ‘Including the bedroom?’

  Without a blush, she looked us straight in the eye and said:

  ‘Including the bedroom and the bathroom full of trunks.’

  Maigret passed the article to his wife and watched her out of the corner of his eye as she read it, since he knew in advance which passages would cause a reaction. She didn’t disappoint. Two or three times she let out a sigh. At the end, she didn’t turn towards him but stared at the unloading barge.

  ‘What a strange girl,’ she murmured.

  To tease her, he pretended not to hear. After a while she asked:

  ‘Do you approve?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you read it? The visits to Rue des Saint-Pères. The bedroom ... In my day ...’

  He hesitated. He didn’t want to embarrass her, but he risked it anyway.

  ‘Don’t you remember? The little wood in the Chevreuse valley ...’

  Martine Chapuis may not have blushed, but Madame Maigret turned beetroot red.

  ‘You’re not making out it’s the same thing?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was a week before we got married.’

  ‘For them it is two months.’

  ‘If they get married!’

  ‘If they don’t, it won’t be her fault.’

  She was in a sulk for the next quarter of an hour. They were just reaching the end of the canal, walking along the bank and stopping behind every fisherman, when she finally cracked a smile, unable to sustain her grudge any longer.

  ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘And you would have told that to a journalist, as if to brag about it?’

  Unable to find an answer to this, he chose instead to fill his pipe. The moment he stopped to light it large raindrops began to spatter on to the ground and on to his hat.

  5. Doctor Jave’s Alibi

  The storm had rumbled on into the night, breaking the spell of fine weather that had lasted for more than a week. The next morning, the air was almost cold, a grey mist hung around the streets, and the sun was as pale as in February.

  But it wasn’t that that was making Maigret feel gloomy. Just as he was setting out to buy the newspapers, his wife had asked, as on the other mornings:

  ‘Do you have any plans for today?’

  He had said no, also as on the other days.

  ‘Would it be all right if we had lunch at home?’

  He hadn’t understood what she was getting at, at first.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be all right?’

  It was then that she had said with a sigh:

  ‘My feet are so sore. I’d like to have a rest today.’

  In other words, it wasn’t the lunch at the restaurant that was putting her off, but the long walks across Paris that her husband made her do afterwards. What day was it? Since he had been on holiday he hadn’t bothered to keep track. It must be Friday, and she was already worn out.

  ‘See you later,’ he had muttered.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Besides, I have to sort out my dresses.’

  She had been wearing a new dress every day, just to please him, and she didn’t have very many summer dresses.

  Fair enough! Perhaps he shouldn’t have made her eat in a rather dubious bistro near Boulevard de la Chapelle and then walked her home in the rain. He had thought she was finding it fun. Every squall had soaked them to the skin. Maigret had said:

  ‘Just imagine you’re at the seaside!’

  It didn’t matter. She probably really did have sore feet. She had always suffered for them.

  He bought his papers, seated himself at his favourite terrace, in spite of the chilly weather, and ordered his now customary coffee.

  There was nothing new in the morning papers. They simply rehashed what had appeared in the previous evening’s editions, only in less detail.

  It felt like a blank, all of a sudden, as if the case had reached a dead end. He felt frustrated. His first thought was:

  ‘What are they up to?’

  He was thinking about Janvier and the others at Quai des Orfèvres, who were tasked with solving the case, and it was several minutes before his sense of humour reasserted itself and he started to laugh at himself.

  He had just reacted like the average reader. He hadn’t been fed his daily pittance and he was vexed. Along with the general public, he had been feeling for a while that the police weren’t doing their job properly and he had got a better understanding of those reporters who laid siege to his door in the course of a sensational case.

  ‘Just give us something, inspector, anything!’

  He then read the rest of the paper: the weather in the various health resorts and fashionable beaches, what the film stars had been saying, road accidents and even a long article on the future of television.

  The rest of the morning was uneventful. He wandered around the streets wherever his fancy took him, popping into two small bars for an aperitif. When he got home there was poulet bonne femme waiting for him, as well as an apologetic Madame Maigret, who was sorry for what she had said that morning.

  ‘Are you annoyed?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I hope you’re not thinking I’m getting bored of being with you. My feet really are ...’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But it doesn’t stop you going out somewhere.’

  There was the hint of another storm in the air, or at least some rain: the sun had disappeared, and the sky was a uniform grey. He didn’t know where he was going but he went out anyway, still in a bad mood. Instead of turning left at Boulevard Voltaire, he turned right, and the rain began to fall in earnest, in broad streaks, the moment he reached Place Voltaire.

  He ducked into a local café opposite the town hall, one that he knew had a billiard table in the back room, and told himself that if he found a willing partner, he wouldn’t say no to a game or two. He hadn’t been too bad at billiards in his day. He liked the way the balls mo
ved almost intelligently when you applied the right amount of side and he also loved the click they made when they struck one another.

  The two billiard tables had their dust sheets on. However, near the window, there were some groups playing belote, and Maigret sat down nearby. He observed two games simultaneously from his seat on the banquette, and one of the players never failed to look round and give him a wink whenever he had a good hand.

  This was all perfectly pleasant. The eldest player must have been a retired high-ranking civil servant, as he was an officer of the Legion of Honour, and they addressed his partner as ‘professor’ – no doubt a schoolmaster.

  ‘Spade, spade again, and trumps ...’

  The retired gentleman was the only one to reach out a hand when the newspaper seller came into the café. However, he merely deposited his newspaper on the adjoining table without looking at it and turned back to his game.

  There was finally some news. As Maigret had thought, the Police Judiciaire had not been idle. But it wasn’t possible to feed sensational news to the press twice in one day.

  There were a number of headlines on the front page, the main one in bolder type than the others:

  DOCTOR JAVE’S ALIBI

  INSPECTOR JANVIER GOES TO CANNES

  THE DEAD WOMAN’S JEWELS

  That was a lot all at once, and Maigret turned his attention away from the game to concentrate on reading. Lassagne wrote:

  The Boulevard Haussmann affair has taken a new twist in the last twenty-four hours, and there are no doubt more surprises to come.

  The credit seems to belong to Inspector Janvier, leading the case in the absence of Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, who is still on leave.

  Right at the start of the investigation, letters rogatory were sent to the Flying Squad in Alpes-Maritimes, requesting that they interrogate Mademoiselle Jusserand, the nurse of little Michèle Jave, who was still at the Villa Marie-Thérèse.

  What information did the Police Judiciaire derive from this? We have not been privy to it, but yesterday morning, one of our reporters posted at Quai des Orfèvres followed Inspector Janvier, who left by car in a hurry.