Maigret is Afraid

by Georges Simenon

  The manservant seemed utterly bemused by Maigret’s attitude. After the question about his room, he had been expecting a real grilling. But Maigret asked him nothing.

  In the right wing of the ground floor, he knocked on a carved oak door.

  ‘It’s me, Monsieur!’ he said, raising his voice so as to be heard inside.

  And, since they could hear a grunt:

  ‘The inspector’s with me and he insists on seeing you.’

  They stood still while someone stomped up and down inside the room and finally opened the door a crack.

  The sister-in-law hadn’t been mistaken when she had talked about bulging eyes: they stared at Maigret in a sort of stupor.

  ‘It’s you!’ stuttered Hubert Vernoux, slurring his words.

  He must have gone to bed fully dressed. His clothes were crumpled, his white hair flopped over his forehead and he ran his hand through it mechanically.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I wanted to have a conversation with you.’

  It was hard to throw him out. Vernoux stepped aside, as if he hadn’t yet fully come to his senses. The room was vast, and there was a very dark, ornate wooden four-poster bed with faded silk hangings.

  All the furniture was antique, in more or less the same style, reminiscent of a chapel or a sacristy.

  ‘Would you excuse me?’

  Vernoux went into a bathroom, filled a glass of water and gargled. When he returned, he was already a little better.

  ‘Have a seat. In this armchair if you like. Have you seen anyone?’

  ‘Your sister-in-law.’

  ‘Did she tell you I’d been drinking?’

  ‘She showed me the bottle of Marc.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘It’s always the same old thing. Women can’t understand. A man who has suddenly been told that his son . . .’

  His eyes misted over. His tone became quieter, whining.

  ‘It’s a hard blow, inspector. Especially when you only have the one son. What’s his mother doing?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘She will declare that she’s ill. That’s her thing. She declares she’s ill and no one dares say anything to her. Do you understand? Then her sister steps in: she calls it taking the house in hand . . .’

  He reminded Maigret of an old actor who is determined at all costs to stir his audience’s emotions. His slightly puffy face changed expression at a remarkable speed. Within a few minutes, his mobile features had successively displayed boredom, a degree of fear, then paternal sorrow and bitterness towards the two women. Now, fear resurfaced.

  ‘Why were you so keen to see me?’

  Maigret, who had not sat down in the armchair, pulled the length of piping out of his pocket and laid it on the table.

  ‘Did you often go to your brother-in-law’s house?’

  ‘Around once a month to take him his money. I imagine people knew that I gave him money to get by?’

  ‘So you noticed this piece of piping on his desk?’

  He hesitated, grasping that the answer to this question was crucial, and he knew he had to make a quick decision.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘It’s the only physical clue that we have in this case. So far, no one seems to have grasped its full importance.’

  He sat down, took his pipe out of his pocket and filled it. Vernoux remained on his feet, his features drawn as if he were suffering a violent headache.

  ‘Have you got a few minutes?’

  Without waiting for the reply, he went on:

  ‘It was stated that the three murders were more or less identical, but in fact the first was very different from the other two. The widow Gibon and Gobillard were killed in cold blood, with premeditation. The man who rang the doorbell of the former midwife had gone there to kill her, and did so right away, in the hall. On the doorstep, he was already holding his weapon. When, two days later, he attacked Gobillard, he might not have been targeting him in particular, but he was out in the street with the intention of killing. Are you with me?’

  Vernoux, in any case, was making an almost painful effort to fathom what Maigret was trying to get at.

  ‘The Courçon case is different. On entering his house, the murderer did not have a weapon, so we can conclude that he did not go there with homicidal intentions. Something happened that drove him to act. Perhaps Courçon’s attitude, which could often be provocative, perhaps even a threatening gesture on his part?’

  Maigret broke off to strike a match and draw on his pipe.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About my reasoning.’

  ‘I thought this business was over.’

  ‘Even if it is, I’m trying to understand.’

  ‘A madman wouldn’t bother himself with those considerations.’

  ‘And supposing it weren’t a madman, or at least, not a madman in the usual sense of the word? Bear with me for a little longer. Someone goes to Robert de Courçon’s house, in the evening, quite openly, because he doesn’t have any evil intentions, and, for reasons we don’t know, is provoked into killing him. He leaves no trace and takes away the weapon, which indicates that he doesn’t want to get caught.

  ‘So it’s a man who knows the victim, who’s in the habit of going to see him at that time.

  ‘It’s inevitable that the police will follow that line of reasoning.

  ‘And there’s every chance that they’ll find the culprit.’

  Vernoux looked at him as if deep in thought, weighing up the pros and the cons.

  ‘Let us now suppose that another murder is committed, at the other end of town, on someone who has nothing to do either with the murderer or with Courçon. What will happen?’

  Vernoux did not completely suppress a smile. Maigret went on:

  ‘The police would no longer necessarily look among the relatives of the first victim. They would all think that they must be dealing with a madman.’

  He paused.

  ‘That’s what happened. And as an additional precaution, to reinforce this hypothesis of madness, the murderer killed a third time, in the street this time, picking on the first drunkard he came across. The magistrate, the prosecutor and the police were all hoodwinked.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘I wasn’t alone in not believing it. Public opinion can sometimes be wrong. Often too, it has the same sort of intuition as women and children.’

  ‘You mean it pointed the finger at my son?’

  ‘It pointed the finger at this house.’

  Saying no more, Maigret rose and went over to a Louis XIII table that served as a desk and on which some writing paper lay on a blotter. He took a sheet and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

  ‘Arsène wrote,’ he said casually.

  ‘My manservant?’

  Vernoux hurried over and Maigret noticed that despite his corpulence, he had the lightness that is common among some large men.

  ‘He wanted to be questioned. But he didn’t dare come to the police or the law courts of his own accord.’

  ‘Arsène doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘That is possible, although his room overlooks the street.’

  ‘Have you talked to him?’

  ‘Not yet. I wonder whether he bears you a grudge for not paying his wages and borrowing money from him.’

  ‘You know about that as well?’

  ‘And you, Monsieur Vernoux, don’t you have anything to say to me?’

  ‘What would I say to you? My son—’

  ‘Let’s not talk about your son. I presume that you’ve never been happy?’

  He did not answer, but stared at the carpet with its dark leaf pattern.

  ‘As long as you had money, the satisfactions of vanity were enough. After all, you were the town’s wealthy magnate.’

  ‘These are personal matters which I have no wish to discuss.’

  ‘Have you lost a lot of money these past few years?’
r />   Maigret adopted a lighter tone, as if what he was saying were unimportant.

  ‘Contrary to what you think, the investigation is not over and the case is still open. Until now, for reasons that do not concern me, the investigation has not been conducted by the book. We cannot put off questioning your servants any longer. We would also like to inquire into your affairs, examine your bank statements. We will find out what everyone has known for years, that you are battling in vain to salvage what remains of your fortune. Behind the façade there is nothing left, other than a man treated with contempt by his own family since he is no longer capable of making money.’

  Hubert Vernoux opened his mouth. Maigret did not let him speak.

  ‘They’ll also call on psychiatrists.’

  He saw Vernoux raise his head abruptly.

  ‘I don’t know what their opinion will be. I am not here officially. I’m going back to Paris this evening and my friend Chabot remains in charge of the investigation.

  ‘I told you earlier that the first murder wasn’t necessarily the work of a madman. I added that the other two had been committed with a specific aim, following a fairly perverse logic.

  ‘But I shouldn’t be surprised if the psychiatrists consider that logic as a sign of madness, of a particular sort of madness, one more common than people think, which they call paranoia.

  ‘You must have read the books that your son was bound to have in his study?’

  ‘I have glanced at some of them.’

  ‘You ought to re-read them.’

  ‘You’re not claiming that I—’

  ‘I’m not claiming anything. I watched you playing cards yesterday and I saw you win. You must be convinced that you will win this game in the same way.’

  ‘I’m not playing any game.’

  He protested feebly, inwardly flattered that Maigret should pay him so much attention and indirectly acknowledge his ingenuity.

  ‘I must warn you against one mistake you should avoid making: it won’t help matters at all – quite the contrary – if there is any further carnage, or even a single murder. Do you understand me? As your son kept saying, madness has its rules, its own logic.’

  Once again, Vernoux opened his mouth, but Maigret still wouldn’t allow him to speak.

  ‘I’ve finished. I’m taking the nine-thirty train and I have to go and pack before dinner.’

  Nonplussed and disappointed, Vernoux stared at him uncomprehendingly and made a move to stop him, but Maigret was already striding towards the door.

  ‘I’ll find my own way out.’

  It took him a while, but eventually he came to the kitchen. Arsène burst out of the room, a quizzical look in his eye.

  Maigret said nothing, followed the main corridor, opened the front door himself and the manservant closed it after him.

  Only three or four stalwarts were left on the pavement opposite. Would the vigilantes be out on patrol again tonight?

  He nearly headed in the direction of the law courts, where the meeting was probably still going on, but decided to do as he had said and go and pack his suitcase. Once in the street, he fancied a glass of beer and he sat down at a terrace table at the Café de la Poste.

  Everyone stared at him. People spoke in hushed voices. Some began to whisper.

  He drank two large beers, slowly, savouring them, as if he was in a Parisian café on the boulevards, and parents stopped to point him out to their children.

  He saw Chalus, the school teacher, walk past in the company of a paunchy character to whom he was telling a story involving a great deal of gesticulation. Chalus didn’t see Maigret and the two men disappeared around the corner.

  It was almost dark and the terrace had emptied when he rose laboriously to make his way to Chabot’s house. His friend opened the door, shooting him an anxious look.

  ‘I was wondering where you were.’

  ‘Sitting at the terrace of a café.’

  He hung his hat on the coat stand and caught sight of the table laid for dinner in the dining room, but dinner wasn’t ready and Chabot showed him into his study.

  After a fairly lengthy silence, Chabot muttered, without looking at Maigret:

  ‘The investigation is continuing.’

  He seemed to be saying: ‘You’ve won. You see! We’re not as spineless as you thought.’

  Maigret didn’t smile, but gave a little nod of approval.

  ‘As of now, the house in Rue Rabelais is under police guard. Tomorrow I shall question the servants.’

  ‘By the way, I forgot to return this to you.’

  ‘Are you really leaving tonight?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘I wonder whether we’ll reach a successful conclusion.’

  Maigret had placed the lead piping on the table and was rummaging in his pockets for Arsène’s letter.

  ‘Louise Sabati?’ he asked.

  ‘Apparently she’s out of danger. The vomiting saved her. She had just eaten and hadn’t begun digesting.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She answers in monosyllables.’

  ‘Did she know they were both going to die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she accept it?’

  ‘He told her that they would never be allowed to be happy.’

  ‘He didn’t talk to her about the three murders?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or about his father?’

  Chabot looked him in the eyes.

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’

  Maigret merely blinked.

  ‘Is he mad?’

  ‘The psychiatrists will decide.’

  ‘In your view?’

  ‘I will gladly say that sane people do not kill. But that is simply an opinion.’

  ‘Not very orthodox, maybe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You seem preoccupied.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For something to happen.’

  ‘Do you think something’s going to happen today?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I paid a visit to Hubert Vernoux.’

  ‘Did you tell him—’

  ‘I told him how and why the three murders were committed. I told him how the murderer would be expected to react.’

  Chabot, so proud earlier of the decision he had taken, once again looked stricken.

  ‘But . . . in that case . . . aren’t you afraid that—’

  ‘Dinner is served,’ announced Rose, while Madame Chabot, who was making her way to the dining room, smiled at them.

  9. Vintage Napoleon Brandy

  Once again, because of the old lady, they had to keep quiet, or rather only talk of casual matters unrelated to their concerns, and, that evening, the talk was of food, in particular the best way to cook hare à la royale.

  Madame Chabot had made profiteroles again and Maigret ate five, nauseated, his gaze fixed on the hands of the ancient clock.

  By 8.30 still nothing had happened.

  ‘There’s no hurry. I’ve ordered a taxi to go and pick up your luggage from the hotel first.’

  ‘I have to go there anyway to pay my bill.’

  ‘I telephoned and told them to put it on my account. That will teach you not to stay with us when, once every twenty years, you deign to come to Fontenay.’

  Coffee and brandy were served. Maigret accepted a cigar, because it was the tradition and his friend’s mother would have been offended if he had refused.

  It was 8.55 and the taxi was outside the door, its engine running and the driver waiting, when the telephone finally rang.

  Chabot dashed over and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Speaking, yes . . . What? . . . He’s dead? . . . I can’t hear you, Féron . . . Stop shouting . . . Yes . . . I’m on my way . . . Have him taken to the hospital, it goes without saying . . .’

  He turned to Maigret.

  ‘I have to go up there right away. Do you a
bsolutely have to return to Paris tonight?’

  ‘Without fail.’

  ‘I won’t be able to come to the station with you.’

  Because of his mother, he said no more, grabbed his hat and his lightweight coat.

  Only when they were outside did he mutter:

  ‘There’s been another terrible scene at the Vernoux’s. Hubert Vernoux, blind drunk, started vandalizing his room, and in the end went completely berserk and slashed his wrist with his razor.’

  Maigret’s calm surprised him.

  ‘He’s not dead,’ added Chabot.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because people like that don’t commit suicide.’

  ‘But his son—’

  ‘Go on. They’re waiting for you.’

  The station was only five minutes away. Maigret walked up to the taxi.

  ‘We should just make it,’ said the driver.

  Maigret turned one last time towards his friend, who looked bewildered standing there on the pavement.

  ‘Write to me.’

  It was a tedious journey. At two or three stations, Maigret alighted to have a drink, and he eventually dozed off, vaguely aware, at each stop, of the stationmaster’s announcements and the creaking of the carriages.

  He reached Paris in the small hours and a taxi drove him home where, from below, he smiled at the open window. His wife was waiting for him on the landing.

  ‘Not too tired? Did you get some sleep?’

  He drank three large cups of coffee before relaxing.

  ‘Do you want a bath?’

  Of course he was going to have one! It was good to hear Madame Maigret’s voice and rediscover the smell of the apartment, with the furniture and objects in their place.

  ‘I didn’t understand what you said to me on the telephone. Were you on a case?’

  ‘It’s finished.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A man who couldn’t bear to lose.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. There are people who are capable of absolutely anything rather than taking a tumble.’

  ‘Only you know what you mean,’ she murmured philosophically, without worrying about it any further.