Maigret is Afraid

by Georges Simenon

  ‘What will you have? A vintage brandy?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Rose understood the magistrate’s unspoken instructions and left the room. The smell of the house hadn’t changed and that was something else that Maigret had once envied, the smell of a well-kept home, where the wooden floors are polished and the food is good.

  He would have sworn that every single piece of furniture was in the same place.

  ‘Do sit down. It’s good to see you . . .’

  He would have been tempted to say that Chabot hadn’t changed either. He recognized his features, his expression. Since they had both aged, Maigret barely realized that the years had taken their toll. All the same, he was struck by something gloomy, hesitant, slightly feeble, that he had never noticed in his friend before.

  Had he been like that in the past? Was it that Maigret hadn’t noticed?

  ‘Cigar?’

  There was a stack of boxes on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I always smoke a pipe.’

  ‘It’s true. I’d forgotten. I myself haven’t smoked for twelve years.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders?’

  ‘No. One fine day, I said to myself that it was stupid to make smoke and . . .’

  Rose came in with a tray on which there was a bottle covered with a fine film of dust from the cellar and a single crystal glass.

  ‘You don’t drink any more either?’

  ‘I gave up at the same time. Just a little watered-down wine at mealtimes. As for you, you haven’t changed.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘You appear to be enjoying excellent health. It really is a pleasure to see you.’

  Why did he not sound entirely sincere?

  ‘You’ve promised to visit these parts and then cried off at the last minute so often that I confess I wasn’t really expecting you.’

  ‘But here I am, aren’t I? You see!’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘She’s well.’

  ‘She didn’t come with you?’

  ‘She doesn’t like congresses.’

  ‘Did it go well?’

  ‘We drank a lot, talked a lot, ate a lot.’

  ‘Myself, I travel less and less.’

  He lowered his voice because footsteps could be heard upstairs.

  ‘It’s difficult with my mother. Besides, I can’t leave her on her own any more.’

  ‘Is she still as robust?’

  ‘She hasn’t changed. Only her eyesight is deteriorating a little. It upsets her not to be able to thread her needles, but she refuses to wear glasses.’

  It was obvious that his mind was elsewhere as he looked at Maigret rather in the same way as Vernoux de Courçon had stared at him in the train.

  ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what’s going on here.’

  ‘I haven’t read the papers for almost a week. But I travelled earlier with a certain Vernoux de Courçon who claims to be your friend.’

  ‘Hubert?’

  ‘I don’t know. A man of around sixty-five.’

  ‘That’s Hubert.’

  There was no sound coming from the town. You could only hear the patter of rain beating against the windowpanes and, from time to time, the crackling of the logs in the hearth. In his day, Julien Chabot’s father had been an investigating magistrate in Fontenay-le-Comte and the study hadn’t changed since his son had taken it over.

  ‘In that case, people must have told you—’

  ‘Almost nothing. A journalist with a camera cornered me in the hotel dining room.’

  ‘A redhead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s Lomel. What did he say to you?’

  ‘He was convinced I was here to handle some case. I didn’t have the time to disabuse him before the police chief turned up too.’

  ‘In short, right now, the entire town knows you’re here?’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  Chabot just managed to conceal his hesitation.

  ‘No . . . except that . . .’

  ‘Except that what?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s very complicated. You’ve never lived in a small town like Fontenay.’

  ‘I lived in Luçon for more than a year, you know!’

  ‘There was never a case like the one I’ve got on my hands.’

  ‘I remember a certain murder, in L’Aiguillon . . .’

  ‘That’s true. I was forgetting.’

  Maigret was referring to a case where he had been obliged to arrest a former magistrate, universally considered to be utterly respectable, for murder.

  ‘At least it’s not as bad as that. You’ll find out tomorrow morning. I’d be surprised if the journalists from Paris didn’t arrive on the first train.’

  ‘A murder?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Vernoux de Courçon’s brother-in-law?’

  ‘You see, you do know about it!’

  ‘That’s all I’ve heard.’

  ‘His brother-in-law, yes, Robert de Courçon, who was killed four days ago. That alone would have been enough to cause a scandal. The day before yesterday, it was the widow Gibon’s turn.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘No one of importance. Quite the opposite. An old woman who lived alone at the far end of Rue des Loges.’

  ‘What’s the connection between the two murders?’

  ‘They were both committed in the same way, probably with the same weapon.’

  ‘A revolver?’

  ‘No. A blunt object, as we say in police reports. A section of lead piping, or a tool like a monkey wrench.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough? . . . Sssh!’

  The door opened noiselessly and a tiny, thin woman dressed in black walked in, her hand extended.

  ‘It’s you, Jules!’

  How many years had it been since anyone had called him by his first name?

  ‘My son went to the station. When he came back he told me you wouldn’t be coming now and I went upstairs. Haven’t you been given anything to eat?’

  ‘He had dinner at the hotel, Mother.’

  ‘What do you mean, at the hotel?’

  ‘He’s staying at the Hôtel de France. He refuses to—’

  ‘I won’t hear of it! I will not allow you to . . .’

  ‘Believe me, madame, it is much better that I stay at the hotel because the news hounds are already after me. If I were to accept your invitation, tomorrow morning, if not tonight, they’d be ringing your bell non-stop. In fact, it would be better not to say that I’m here at the invitation of your son . . .’

  So that was what was bothering the magistrate, and Maigret saw the confirmation written on his face.

  ‘People will still say that you are!’

  ‘I’ll deny it. This case, or rather these cases, are none of my concern. I have no intention of getting involved.’

  Was Chabot afraid that he would get mixed up in something that was none of his business? Or was he worried that Maigret, with his sometimes rather idiosyncratic methods, could put him in a delicate situation?

  Maigret had turned up at a bad time.

  ‘I wonder, Mother, whether Maigret mightn’t be right.’

  And, turning towards his old friend:

  ‘This is no ordinary investigation, you see. Robert de Courçon, the man who was murdered, was well known, and related in one way or another to all the prominent families in the region. His brother-in-law Vernoux is also a leading figure. After the first murder, rumours began to circulate. Then the widow Gibon was killed, and that changed the nature of the speculation somewhat. But . . .’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. The police chief is in charge of the investigation. He’s a good man, who knows the town, even though he’s from the south, from Arles, I think. The Poitiers Flying Squad’s on the scene too. As far as I’m concerned . . .’

  The old lady had sat down on the edge of a chair
as if she were a visitor, and was listening to her son talk as if listening to the sermon at high mass.

  ‘Two murders in three days, that’s a lot for a town with a population of eight thousand. People are getting scared. It’s not just because of the rain that there’s no one out and about tonight.’

  ‘What do people think?’

  ‘Some reckon it’s a madman.’

  ‘Nothing was stolen?’

  ‘Not in either case. And in both instances the murderer gained entry to the house without arousing the victim’s suspicion. That’s a clue. It’s more or less the only one we have.’

  ‘No fingerprints?’

  ‘None. If it is a madman, he’ll probably strike again.’

  ‘I see. What about you, what do you think?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m trying to find out. There’s something bothering me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s still too vague for me to be able to explain. I have a huge responsibility on my shoulders.’

  He said that like an overburdened official. And it was very much an official that Maigret now had in front of him, an official from a small town, living in dread of making a mistake.

  Had Maigret become like that with age too? Because of his friend, he felt himself growing old.

  ‘I wonder whether it might be best for me to take the first train to Paris. I only came to Fontenay to say hello to you. I’ve done that. My presence here is likely to make things difficult for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Chabot’s instinctive reaction had not been to protest.

  ‘Already the redhead and the police chief are convinced that you asked me to come to the rescue. People will say that you’re afraid, that you don’t know how to deal with it, that—’

  ‘Not at all.’

  The magistrate half-heartedly dismissed that idea.

  ‘I won’t allow you to leave. I’m entitled to receive visits from my friends when I so wish.’

  ‘My son is right, Jules. And I think you should come and stay with us.’

  ‘Maigret prefers to be free to come and go as he pleases, don’t you, Maigret?’

  ‘I have my little ways.’

  ‘I shan’t press you.’

  ‘I still think it would be for the best if I left tomorrow morning.’

  Was Chabot about to concur? The telephone rang and the sound wasn’t the same as normal telephones; this one had an old-fashioned ring.

  ‘Would you excuse me?’

  Chabot picked up the receiver.

  ‘Investigating Magistrate Chabot speaking.’

  The way he said that was another signal, and Maigret tried hard to suppress a smile.

  ‘Who? . . . Oh! Yes . . . Go ahead, Féron . . . What? . . . Gobillard? . . . Where? . . . On the corner of Champ-de-Mars and Rue . . . I’m on my way . . . Yes . . . He’s here . . . I don’t know . . . Don’t let anyone touch anything until I get there . . .’

  His mother watched him, one hand on her chest.

  ‘Another one?’ she gasped.

  He nodded.

  ‘Gobillard.’

  He explained to Maigret:

  ‘An old drunkard who everyone in Fontenay knows because he spends most of his time fishing near the bridge. He’s just been found dead in the street.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘His skull smashed, like the other two, probably with the same instrument.’

  He sprang to his feet, opened the door and took an old trenchcoat from the rack and a battered hat, which he probably only wore when it was raining.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Are you sure that I should go with you?’

  ‘Now everyone knows you’re here, people will wonder why I haven’t brought you. Two murders was already a lot. With a third, people will be terrified.’

  Just as they were leaving, a nervous little hand tugged Maigret’s sleeve and the elderly mother whispered to him:

  ‘Keep an eye on him, Jules! He’s so conscientious that he doesn’t realize the danger he’s in.’

  2. The Rabbit-fur Seller

  The weather was so contrary and fierce that the rain wasn’t mere rain or the wind freezing wind – this was a conspiracy of the elements. Earlier, standing on Niort station’s exposed platform, fatigued by this relentless winter that was dragging on and on, Maigret had been reminded of a wounded animal that won’t die and is determined to keep biting to the very end.

  There was no point trying to protect himself. Water wasn’t just pelting down from the sky but was also dripping from the guttering, in fat, cold drops, streaming down the doors of the houses and racing along the gutters with the gurgling of a torrent; you had water all over your face and neck, in your shoes and even in the pockets of your clothes, which were impossible to dry between two sallies outdoors.

  They walked in the teeth of the wind, without speaking, straining forwards, the magistrate in his old raincoat that was flapping like a flag, Maigret in his overcoat, which weighed a ton. After a few steps, the tobacco in his pipe went out with a sizzling sound.

  They saw the occasional lighted window, but not many. After the bridge, they passed the windows of the Café de la Poste and were aware that people were watching from behind the curtains; the door opened after they had gone by and they heard footsteps and voices.

  The murder had taken place very near to that spot. In Fontenay, nothing is ever very far away and there is generally no need to use a car. A little street turned off to the right, connecting Rue de la République and the Champ-de-Mars. People were clustered outside the third or fourth house, close to the lights of an ambulance, some of them holding torches.

  A short man broke away from the group, Inspector Féron, who almost committed the gaffe of addressing Maigret instead of Chabot.

  ‘I telephoned you right away, from the Café de la Poste. I also called the prosecutor.’

  A human form lay on the pavement, one hand in the gutter, pale skin visible between his black shoes and the bottoms of his trousers: Gobillard, the dead man, was wearing no socks. His hat lay a metre away. The inspector shone his torch in his face and, as Maigret and Chabot both leaned over, there was a flash, a click, then the voice of the ginger-haired journalist asking:

  ‘One more please. Go closer, Monsieur Maigret.’

  Maigret stepped back, muttering. Two or three onlookers stood close to the body, gawping at it, then at a good distance, five or six metres away, was a second, larger group, with people talking in hushed voices.

  Chabot asked questions in a tone that was both official and exasperated:

  ‘Who found him?’

  And Féron replied, pointing to one of the closest figures:

  ‘Doctor Vernoux.’

  Was he from the same family as the man on the train? As far as it was possible to tell in the dark, he looked a lot younger. Thirty-five perhaps? He was tall, with a long, animated face, and wore glasses, which had rain running down them.

  He and Chabot shook hands automatically, like men who see one another every day or even several times a day.

  The doctor explained softly:

  ‘I was on my way to a friend’s house on the other side of the square. I saw something on the pavement. I bent down. He was already dead. To save time, I ran into the Café de la Poste and telephoned the chief inspector.’

  One by one, other faces appeared in the torch beams, all behind a veil of slanting rain.

  ‘Are you here, Jussieux?’

  Handshake. These people knew each other as well as classmates.

  ‘I happened to be in the café. We were playing bridge and we all came . . .’

  The magistrate remembered Maigret, who was standing to one side, and introduced him:

  ‘Doctor Jussieux, a friend. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret . . .’

  Jussieux explained:

  ‘Same method as for the other two. A violent blow to the crown of the head. The weapon slipped slightly to the left this time. Gobillard too w
as attacked from the front, and he didn’t attempt to protect himself in any way.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘You only need to bend over and sniff. You know what he’s usually like at this hour . . .’

  Maigret was only half-listening. Lomel, the ginger-haired reporter, who had just taken a second photo, was trying to draw him aside. The thing that struck Maigret was quite hard to define.

  The smaller of the two groups, the one closest to the body, seemed to be made up only of people who knew one another and belonged to a particular milieu: the magistrate, the two doctors, probably the men who had been playing bridge earlier with Doctor Jussieux and were doubtless all local bigwigs.

  The other, less illustrious group did not maintain the same silence. Without overtly showing it, they exuded a certain hostility. There were even a few sniggers.

  A dark car drew up behind the ambulance and a man alighted, stopping short on recognizing Maigret.

  ‘You’re here, chief!’

  He did not seem overjoyed to see Maigret. This was Chabiron, a Flying Squad inspector on secondment to the Poitiers force for the past few years.

  ‘So they’ve brought you in?’

  ‘I’m here by chance.’

  ‘That’s what’s known as a happy coincidence, isn’t it?’

  He also sniggered.

  ‘I was driving around, patrolling the town, which is why it took a while to get hold of me. Who is it?’

  Féron, the police chief, told him:

  ‘A certain Gobillard, a fellow who does the rounds of Fontenay once or twice a week collecting rabbit skins. He also buys cow hides and sheep skins from the municipal abattoir. He has a cart and an old horse and lives in a shack outside town. He spends most of his time fishing by the bridge, using the most disgusting bait – bone marrow, chicken guts, congealed blood . . .’

  Chabiron must have been an angler.

  ‘Does he ever catch any fish?’

  ‘He’s about the only one who ever does. In the evening, he goes from bar to bar, knocking back a glass of red in each one until he’s had enough.’

  ‘Never any trouble?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘He lives alone with his horse and a huge number of cats.’