‘Who is this?’
Maigret was pointing to the dead man on the bed. The sheets and blankets were rumpled. The pillow had fallen on the floor. An arm dangled off one side. He could see blood on the pyjamas, which were torn, or rather burned by gunpowder.
It may have been the high-contrast black and white of silent films on Maigret’s mind this morning, but in this bedroom he suddenly remembered the illustrations in Sunday papers in the days before photography, when engravings were used to depict the week’s crime.
‘Léonard Lachaume, the eldest son.’
‘Married?’
‘Widower.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Last night. According to Doctor Voisin, the deceased would have come back around two in the morning.’
‘Who was in the house?’
‘Let’s see … The old couple, the mother and father, on the floor above, in the left wing … That makes two … Then the little boy …’
‘Which little boy?’
‘The deceased’s son … A boy of twelve … He’s at school now …’
‘Despite the tragic circumstances?’
‘Apparently no one knew at eight this morning when he went to school.’
‘So no one heard anything? Who else is there in the house?’
‘The maid. I think she’s called Catherine. She sleeps near the old couple and the little boy upstairs. She looks the same age as the house and is equally decrepit. Then the younger brother, Armand …’
‘Whose brother?’
‘The deceased’s … He sleeps across the corridor, as does his wife.’
‘They were all here last night, and the gunshot didn’t wake any of them up?’
‘So they say. I kept the questioning brief. It’s not easy, you’ll see!’
‘What’s not easy?’
‘To know. When I got here, I had no idea what this was about. Armand Lachaume, the one who rang me, opened the door downstairs as soon as my car stopped. He seemed half asleep. Without looking at me, he said: “My brother has been killed, chief inspector.”
‘He showed me in here and pointed to the bed. I asked him when it had happened, and he said that he didn’t have a clue. I pressed him: “Were you in the house?”
‘ “I suppose so. I slept in my room.” ’
The chief inspector seemed annoyed with himself.
‘I don’t know how to explain it. Usually when there’s a family tragedy like this you find everyone crowded around the body, people crying, explaining what happened, talking too much, if anything. In this case it took me a while before I realized the men weren’t alone in the house …’
‘Have you seen anyone else?’
‘The wife.’
‘The wife of Armand who rang you, you mean?’
‘Yes. At some point I heard a rustling in the corridor. I opened the door and I found her behind it. She looked tired, like her husband. She didn’t seem embarrassed. I asked her who she was, and Armand answered for her: “She’s my wife …”
‘I wanted to know if she’d heard anything during the night, and she said she hadn’t, she’s in the habit of taking some tablets or other to help her sleep …’
‘Who found the body? And when?’
‘The old maid, at a quarter to nine.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Yes. She must have gone back to the kitchen now. I’ve a feeling she might be a little deaf. She became worried when the older son didn’t appear at the breakfast table – they usually all have breakfast in the dining room. Eventually she came and knocked on the door. She had a look inside, then went and told the others.’
‘What about the parents?’
‘They’re not saying anything. The wife is half-paralysed and stares into space as if she’s not all there. Her husband seems so overwhelmed he barely understands what you’re saying to him.’
‘You’ll see!’ the chief inspector repeated.
Maigret turned to Janvier.
‘Do you want to have a look?’
Janvier set off, and Maigret finally went over to the dead man, who was lying on his left side, his face turned towards the window. Someone had already closed his eyes. His mouth was half open, framed by a droopy brown moustache flecked with grey. His thinning hair was plastered against his temples and forehead.
It was hard to gauge the expression on his face. He didn’t seem to have suffered, and the predominant emotion was probably shock. But wasn’t that because his mouth had fallen open? That must have happened after he’d died, mustn’t it?
Maigret heard footsteps in the hall on the first floor, then in the corridor. Opening the door, he greeted one of the deputy public prosecutors who he’d known for a long time. The man shook his hand without saying anything, his eyes on the bed. Maigret also knew the court clerk, to whom he gave a wave, but he’d never seen the tall young man without a coat or a hat who was behind them.
‘Angelot …’
The young magistrate, who had just been appointed, held out a firm, well-manicured hand, a tennis-player’s hand. Not for the first time, Maigret thought a new generation was taking over. Although it was true that old Doctor Paul was following close behind, short of breath but spry, a trencherman’s cast to his eyes and mouth.
‘Where’s the stiff?’
Maigret noticed that the grey-blue eyes of the examining magistrate remained cold and that he was frowning, no doubt disapprovingly.
‘Are the photographers done?’ Doctor Paul asked.
‘They haven’t got here yet. I think I can hear them.’
They had to wait for them to finish, as well as the forensics experts from Criminal Records who crammed into the bedroom and set to work.
Retreating to a corner, the deputy asked Maigret:
‘Domestic?’
‘Something’s been stolen, apparently.’
‘Did anyone hear anything?’
‘They say not.’
‘How many people are there in the house?’
‘Let me count … The old couple and the maid, that’s three … The little boy …’
‘What little boy?’
‘The dead man’s son … That’s four … Then the brother and his wife … Six! Six people, aside from the one who was killed, who all heard nothing …’
Moving closer to the doorframe, the deputy ran his hand over the wallpaper.
‘Thick walls but still! Any sign of a weapon?’
‘I don’t know … The Ivry chief inspector hasn’t said anything to me about one … I’m waiting for them to get the formalities over with, then I’ll start the investigation …’
The photographers were looking for sockets for their spotlights and, finding none, had to take the bulb out of the overhead light in the middle of the room. They bustled around, grumbling, jostling one another, calling out instructions, while the examining magistrate, who looked like a student athlete, stood perfectly still, dressed in grey, not saying a word.
‘Do you think I can go now?’ asked chief inspector. ‘My waiting room must be packed. I could send you two or three men in a moment in case you get gawpers congregating on the pavement …’
‘Please do. Thank you.’
‘Do you want one of my inspectors who knows the area as well?’
‘I’ll probably need someone later. I’ll call you. Thanks again.’
As he left, the chief inspector repeated:
‘You’ll see!’
‘See what?’ the deputy asked in a low voice.
Maigret replied:
‘The family … The atmosphere in the house … There wasn’t anyone in the bedroom when the chief inspector got there … Everyone’s keeping to their rooms or the dining room … No one’s stirring … You can’t hear a thing …’
The deputy looked at the furniture, the damp-stained wallpaper, the mirror above the fireplace, where generations of flies had left their mark.
‘I’m not surprised …’
The photog
raphers left first, allowing them a little more space. Doctor Paul set about conducting a cursory examination while the technicians swept the room for fingerprints and searched the furniture.
‘Time of death, doctor?’
‘I’ll be more definite after the post-mortem, but, in all events, he’s been dead a good six hours.’
‘Was he killed outright?’
‘He was shot at point-blank range … The external wound is the width of a saucer, the flesh scorched …’
‘The bullet?’
‘I’ll find it later, inside the body. There’s no exit wound, which suggests it was a small calibre.’
His hands were covered in blood. He went over to the washbasin, but the ewer was empty.
‘There must be a tap somewhere …’
The door was held open for him. Armand Lachaume, the younger brother, was in the corridor. Without a word, he showed him to a dilapidated bathroom dominated by a ancient bathtub with curved legs. The tap was dripping, as it probably had been for years, since it had left brown streaks on the enamel.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Maigret,’ sighed the deputy, turning to the examining magistrate. ‘I’m going back to the Palais de Justice.’
‘Sorry I won’t be joining you,’ the magistrate muttered. ‘I’m going to stay.’
Maigret gave a start, then almost blushed when he saw the young magistrate had noticed.
‘You mustn’t hold it against me, detective chief inspector,’ the latter went on quickly. ‘I’m a novice, as you know, and this is the perfect opportunity for me to learn.’
Was that a trace of irony in his voice? He was polite, too polite even. And absolutely cold beneath his amiable façade.
He was one of the new school, one of those who held that an investigation was the examining magistrate’s exclusive preserve from start to finish, and that the police’s job was merely to follow his orders.
Janvier, who had heard what he said from the doorway, exchanged an eloquent look with Maigret.
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
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PENGUIN CLASSICS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in French as Les scrupules de Maigret by Presses de la Cité 1958
This translation first published 2018
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1958
Translation copyright © Shaun Whiteside, 2018
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail)
© Harry Gruyaert / Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-141-98590-9
Maigret's Doubts Page 15
