Maigret's Revolver

by Georges Simenon

  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.

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