Maigret is Afraid

by Georges Simenon

‘I wanted to know what you thought of him.’

  ‘Weren’t you chiefly worried about whether I knew about the existence of Louise Sabati?’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Through an anonymous letter.’

  ‘Does the magistrate know? The police?’

  ‘They aren’t concerned.’

  ‘But will they be?’

  ‘Not if the murderer is found quickly. I have the letter in my pocket. I haven’t told Chabot about my conversation with Louise.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t think it is relevant at this stage of the investigation.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with her.’

  ‘Tell me, Doctor Vernoux—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘How old were you when you graduated?’

  ‘I left medical school at twenty-five and then I was a junior doctor for two years at Sainte-Anne.’

  ‘And you’ve never tried to earn your own living?’

  He suddenly looked crestfallen.

  ‘You aren’t answering?’

  ‘I have nothing to reply. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Cowardice?’

  ‘I knew you’d call it that.’

  ‘And yet you didn’t come back to Fontenay-le-Comte to protect your father?’

  ‘You see, it’s both simpler and more complicated. I came back one day for a few weeks’ holiday.’

  ‘And you stayed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Out of spinelessness?’

  ‘If you like. Although that’s not entirely true.’

  ‘You felt unable to do anything else?’

  Alain dropped the subject.

  ‘How is Louise?’

  ‘As always, I imagine.’

  ‘Isn’t she worried?’

  ‘Is it a while since you’ve seen her?’

  ‘Two days. I was planning to go and see her last night. But then I didn’t dare. Today neither. Tonight it’s worse, with the men patrolling the streets. Do you understand why the public started spreading rumours about us after the first murder?’

  ‘It’s a phenomenon I have frequently observed.’

  ‘Why go for us?’

  ‘Whom do you think they suspect, your father or you?’

  ‘They don’t care, so long as it’s one of the family. My mother or my aunt would do just as well.’

  They had to stop talking, because footsteps were approaching. They belonged to two men with armbands and coshes, who stared at them as they walked past. One of them shone the beam of an electric torch on them, saying loudly to his companion as they walked off:

  ‘It’s Maigret.’

  ‘The other is the younger Vernoux.’

  ‘I recognized him.’

  Maigret advised Alain:

  ‘You’d do better to go home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And not argue with them.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He did not proffer his hand. His hat askew, he walked off, leaning forwards, in the direction of the bridge, and the patrol halted to watch him go past in silence.

  Maigret shrugged, went inside the hotel and waited to be handed his key. There were two more letters for him, probably anonymous, but the paper was different, and so was the handwriting.

  6. The Ten-thirty Mass

  When he realized it was Sunday, he lingered in bed. Already before that he had been playing a secret childhood game. He sometimes still played it lying in bed next to his wife, taking care not to give anything away. And she would be duped, saying, as she brought him his coffee:

  ‘What were you dreaming?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were smiling in your sleep.’

  That morning in Fontenay, before opening his eyes he sensed a ray of sunshine through his eyelids, whose delicate, tingling skin felt translucent. And probably because of the pulsing blood, it seemed of a brighter red than that of the sun in the sky – glorious, like in a painting.

  He could create an entire world with that sun, showers of sparks, volcanoes, cascades of molten gold. He simply had to bat his eyelids gently, like a kaleidoscope, using his eyelashes as a grille.

  He could hear pigeons cooing on a cornice above his window, then bells ringing in two places at once, and he pictured the tall bell-towers against a clear blue sky.

  He continued with the game while listening to the noises from the street and then, from the echo of the footsteps, from a certain quality of silence, it dawned on him that it was Sunday.

  He dallied for ages before stretching out his hand and picking up his watch from the bedside table. It showed 9.30. In Paris, on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, if spring had also come at last, Madame Maigret in her dressing gown and slippers would have opened the windows and tidied the bedroom while a stew simmered on the stove.

  He promised himself he would call her. Since there was no telephone in the room, he would have to wait until he went downstairs and phone her from the booth.

  He pressed the electric bell. The chambermaid looked cleaner, more cheerful, than the previous day.

  ‘What would you like to eat?’

  ‘Nothing. I’d like a large pot of coffee.’

  She had the same curious way of eying him.

  ‘Shall I run you a bath?’

  ‘Only once I’ve drunk my coffee.’

  He lit a pipe and went to open the window. The air was still chilly, and he had to put on his dressing gown, but he could feel little waves of warmth. The façades and the cobblestones had dried. The street was empty, with the occasional family in their Sunday best walking past, or a village woman clasping a bunch of violets.

  The pace of hotel life must have slowed down, because he waited a long time for his coffee. He had left the two letters received the previous evening on the bedside table. One was signed. The handwriting was as neat as on an engraving, in black ink, like Indian ink.

  Has anyone told you that the widow Gibon was the midwife who delivered Madame Vernoux of her son Alain?

  You might find that useful to know.

  Regards.

  Anselme Remouchamps

  The second letter, anonymous, was written on luxury paper, the top of which had been cut off, probably to remove the letterhead. It was written in pencil.

  Why not question the servants? They know more than anyone else.

  On reading those words, the previous night before going to bed, Maigret had a hunch that they had been written by the manservant at Rue Rabelais who had wordlessly let him in and then handed him his overcoat when he left. The man, with dark hair and thick flesh, was aged between forty and fifty. He looked like the son of a tenant farmer who had not wanted to work the land and who harboured both hatred for the rich and contempt for the farming people he had come from.

  It would probably be easy to obtain a sample of his handwriting. Perhaps, even, the paper belonged to the Vernoux family?

  All that needed to be verified. In Paris, the task would have been easy. Here, ultimately, it was none of his business.

  When the chambermaid came back at last with the coffee, he asked her:

  ‘Are you from Fontenay?’

  ‘I was born in Rue des Loges.’

  ‘Do you know a certain Remouchamps?’

  ‘The shoemaker?’

  ‘His first name is Anselme.’

  ‘He’s the shoemaker who lives two doors down from my mother. He’s got a wart on his nose as big as a pigeon’s egg.’

  ‘What kind of man is he?’

  ‘He’s been a widower for I don’t know how many years – as long as I’ve known him, at any rate. He makes strange chortling noises at little girls to frighten them.’

  She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You’re smoking your pipe before you drink your coffee?’

  ‘You can run my bath.’


  He used the bathroom at the end of the corridor and lay in the hot water for a long time, daydreaming. Several times he opened his mouth as if to talk to his wife, whom he could usually hear bustling about in the adjacent bedroom while he took his bath at home.

  It was 10.15 when he went downstairs. The owner was at the desk, in chef’s whites.

  ‘The investigating magistrate telephoned twice.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘The first time was just after nine o’clock, the second a few minutes ago. The second time I told him you’d be down any minute.’

  ‘Could I put a call through to Paris?’

  ‘On a Sunday, it shouldn’t take long.’

  He gave the number and went over to the doorway for a breath of air. There was no one watching him today. A cock crowed somewhere nearby, and the waters of the River Vendée could be heard gushing past. When an elderly woman in a purple hat passed by close to him, he could have sworn her clothes reeked of incense.

  It was definitely Sunday.

  ‘Hello! Is that you?’

  ‘Are you still in Fontenay? Are you phoning me from Chabot’s? How is his mother?’

  Instead of replying, he asked:

  ‘What’s the weather like in Paris?’

  ‘Since yesterday lunchtime, it’s been spring.’

  ‘Yesterday lunchtime?’

  ‘Yes. It began right after lunch.’

  He had missed half a day of sunshine!

  ‘What about where you are?’

  ‘It’s a fine day too.’

  ‘You haven’t caught a cold?’

  ‘I’m very well.’

  ‘Are you coming home tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’re not certain? I thought—’

  ‘I may be detained for a few hours.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘You told me . . .’

  . . . That he would take the opportunity to have a rest, of course! Wasn’t he resting?

  That was about all. They exchanged the customary phrases.

  Next he called Chabot at home. Rose replied that the magistrate had left for the law courts at eight o’clock. He telephoned him there.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve found the weapon. That’s why I called you. I was told you were asleep. Can you hurry over?’

  ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  ‘The doors are locked. I’ll keep a lookout through the window and come down and open the door.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Chabot sounded overwhelmed.

  ‘I’ll talk to you about it.’

  Maigret took his time all the same. He wanted to relish the Sunday and he soon found himself ambling down Rue de la République where the Café de la Poste had already put its chairs and pedestal tables out on the terrace.

  Two houses further down, the door of the patisserie was open and Maigret dawdled even more to inhale the delicious smell.

  The bells rang. People began to appear in the street, more or less opposite Julien Chabot’s house. It was the crowd emerging from the 10.30 mass at Notre-Dame. He had the impression that people weren’t behaving exactly as they normally did on a Sunday. Very few worshippers set off for home immediately.

  Huddles formed in the square, talking not animatedly but in hushed tones, often falling silent as they glanced towards the doors from which the tide of parishioners was pouring. Even the women lingered, clutching their gilt-edged prayer books in their gloved hands, nearly all of them wearing pastel-coloured spring hats.

  A long, gleaming car was parked in front of the church square and, standing by the door, there was a chauffeur in black livery whom Maigret recognized as the Vernoux’s manservant.

  Was the family, who lived no more than 400 metres away, in the habit of being driven to church by car? It was possible. Maybe it was part of their tradition. It was possible too that they had taken the car today to avoid contact with inquisitive people in the streets.

  They were coming out now, and Hubert Vernoux’s white head stood out above the others. He walked slowly, his hat in his hand. When he was at the top of the steps, Maigret recognized at his side his wife, his sister-in-law and his daughter-in-law.

  The crowd parted imperceptibly. They didn’t form a guard of honour exactly, but there was an empty space around the family group and all eyes were on them.

  The chauffeur opened the door. The women got in first. Then Hubert Vernoux sat in the front and the limousine glided off in the direction of Place Viète.

  Perhaps at that moment, a word yelled by someone in the crowd, a shout, a gesture, would have been enough to spark off the people’s anger. Elsewhere but at the church doors, that might well have happened. Expressions were grim, and although the clouds had gone from the sky, the air was heavy with anxiety.

  A few people shyly greeted Maigret. Did they trust him still? They watched him walk up the street, his pipe in his mouth and his shoulders hunched.

  He walked around Place Viète and turned into Rue Rabelais. Opposite the Vernoux’s, on the other side of the street, two young men not even twenty years old were standing guard. They weren’t wearing armbands, didn’t have coshes. Those accoutrements seemed to be reserved for the night patrols. But they were still under orders and looked proud to be so.

  One raised his cap as Maigret walked past, the other didn’t.

  Half a dozen or so journalists were gathered on the steps of the law courts, whose massive doors were closed, and Lomel had sat down, his cameras next to him.

  ‘Do you think they’re going to let you in?’ he shouted at Maigret. ‘You’ve heard the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Apparently they’ve found the weapon. They’re having big talks in there.’

  The door opened a fraction. Chabot signalled to Maigret to come inside quickly and, as soon as he was in, pushed back the door as if he feared the reporters would storm the building.

  The corridors were drab and the stone walls exuded all the dampness of the past weeks.

  ‘I would have liked to speak to you in private first, but it wasn’t possible.’

  There was light in the magistrate’s chambers. The prosecutor was there, sitting on a chair which he tilted backwards, a cigarette in his mouth. Chief Inspector Féron was there too, as well as Inspector Chabiron, who couldn’t help giving Maigret a look that was both triumphant and mocking.

  On the desk, Maigret immediately noticed a piece of lead piping around twenty-five centimetres in length and four centimetres in diameter.

  ‘Is that it?’

  They all nodded.

  ‘No fingerprints?’

  ‘Only traces of blood and two or three hairs stuck to it.’

  The lenght of dark-green pipe had been part of a kitchen, cellar or garage system. The sections were distinct, probably made by a professional several months earlier, because the metal had had time to tarnish.

  Had the length of piping been cut when a sink or another appliance had been moved? It was highly likely.

  Maigret opened his mouth to ask where the object had been found when Chabot spoke:

  ‘Tell us, inspector.’

  That was the signal Chabiron had been waiting for. Putting on a modest air he gave his account:

  ‘We Poitiers police still use the good old methods. Not only did my partner and I question all the residents in the street, but I also searched high and low. A few metres from the spot where Gobillard was attacked, there’s a big door that leads into a courtyard belonging to a horse trader, with stables all around it. This morning, my curiosity prompted me to go and have a look around. And I soon came across this object buried in the manure on the ground. In all probability, on hearing footsteps, the murderer threw it over the wall.’

  ‘Who examined it for fingerprints?’

  ‘I did. Inspector Féron helped me. We may not be experts, but we know enough to take fingerprints. It’s cer
tain that Gobillard’s killer wore gloves. As for the hairs, we went to the morgue to check them against the dead man’s hair.’

  He concluded smugly:

  ‘They match.’

  Maigret refrained from giving an opinion. There was a silence, which the magistrate eventually broke.

  ‘We were discussing what is the best thing to do now. This discovery seems to bear out Émile Chalus’ statement, at least at first sight.’

  Maigret still said nothing.

  ‘Had the weapon not been discovered at the scene, it could have been argued that the doctor would have found it hard to get rid of before going to telephone from the Café de la Poste. As the inspector so reasonably pointed out.’

  Chabiron preferred to speak his own mind:

  ‘Let us assume that the killer really had got away once he’d committed the murder, before the arrival of Alain Vernoux, as Vernoux claims. It is his third murder. On the other two occasions, he kept his weapon with him. Not only did we find nothing in Rue Rabelais, nor in Rue des Loges, but it seems clear that he struck three times with the same length of lead piping.’

  Maigret had fathomed that, but it was better to let Chabiron go on.

  ‘The man had no reason, this time, to throw his weapon over the wall. He wasn’t being followed. No one had seen him. But if we accept that it was the doctor who killed, it was vital for him to get rid of such a compromising object before—’

  ‘Why alert the authorities?’

  ‘Because that put him out of the frame. He thought that no one would suspect the person who raised the alarm.’

  ‘That makes sense too.’

  ‘That’s not all. As you know.’

  He had spoken those last words with a certain embarrassment, because Maigret, although not his direct superior, was still a big name whom you didn’t challenge to his face.

  ‘Go on, Féron.’

  The police inspector, self-conscious, first stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Chabot looked glum and avoided meeting his friend’s eye. Only the prosecutor glanced at his wristwatch from time to time, like a man who had more enjoyable things to do.

  After clearing his throat, the diminutive police inspector turned to Maigret.

  ‘When I received the phone call yesterday, asking me if I knew a certain Sabati girl . . .’

  Maigret understood and was suddenly afraid. He felt an unpleasant contraction in his chest and his pipe began to have a nasty taste.