‘You’ve done very well, Dupeu.’
‘I try the best I can to . . .’
He was still talking as he descended the stairs. Maigret left him on the doormat outside the concierge’s door and went into the lodge.
‘Good morning, madame.’
‘Good morning, detective chief inspector.’
‘You know who I am?’
She nodded.
‘You know what’s happened?’
‘I asked the officer standing guard out there on the pavement. He told me Mademoiselle Louise is dead.’
The lodge had the comfortable appearance of all concierges’ lodges in this area. The concierge herself, who was only in her forties, was well, even smartly dressed. She was actually quite pretty, although her features were slightly too fleshy.
‘Was she murdered?’ she asked, as Maigret sat down by the window.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t think the police would be here if she’d died a natural death.’
‘She might have killed herself.’
‘That wouldn’t have been like her.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not that well. She never lingered in my lodge, just half opened the door as she passed to ask if she had any mail. She didn’t really feel at ease in this building, if you know what I mean.’
‘You mean she wasn’t from the same background as your other tenants?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think her background was?’
‘I don’t rightly know. I have no reason to speak ill of her. She was quiet, not conceited.’
‘Did her cleaning lady ever talk to you about her?’
‘Madame Brault and I don’t speak to each other.’
‘You know her?’
‘I have no reason to know her. I see her go up and down. That’s enough for me.’
‘Was Louise Filon a kept woman?’
‘It’s possible. She certainly always paid her rent on time.’
‘Did she have visitors?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘But not regularly?’
‘Not what I’d call regularly.’
Maigret had the impression there was something holding her back. Unlike Madame Brault, the concierge was nervous and from time to time cast a rapid glance at the glazed door. It was she who announced:
‘The doctor’s going up.’
‘Tell me, madame . . . What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Cornet.’
‘Tell me, Madame Cornet, is there something you’re trying to hide from me?’
She made an effort to look him in the eyes.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘No reason. I just like to know. Was it always the same man who came to see Louise Filon?’
‘It was always the same man I saw pass by here.’
‘What kind of man?’
‘A musician.’
‘How do you know he’s a musician?’
‘Because once or twice I saw him with a saxophone case under his arm.’
‘Did he come last night?’
‘Yes, about ten.’
‘Did you open the door for him?’
‘No. Until I go to bed at eleven, I leave the door open.’
‘But you see who comes in?’
‘Most of the time. The tenants are quiet. Most of them are important people.’
‘You say the musician in question went up at about ten?’
‘Yes. He only stayed about ten minutes, and when he left he seemed to be in a hurry. I heard him stride off towards Place de l’Étoile.’
‘You didn’t see his face, whether he looked upset or . . .’
‘No.’
‘Did Louise Filon have any other visitors last night?’
‘No.’
‘So if the doctor discovers that the murder was committed between ten and eleven, for example, it’d be more or less certain that . . .’
‘I didn’t say that. I said she didn’t have any other visitors.’
‘Do you think the musician was her lover?’
She didn’t reply at once.
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured at last.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I was thinking of the cost of the apartment.’
‘You mean he wasn’t the kind of musician who could afford to keep his girlfriend in a place like this?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It doesn’t seem to surprise you, Madame Cornet, that your tenant has been murdered.’
‘I didn’t expect it, but it doesn’t surprise me either.’
‘Why?’
‘No particular reason. I have the feeling women like that are more exposed than others. At any rate, that’s the impression you get from reading the papers.’
‘I’m going to ask you to make me a list of all the tenants who came in or went out after nine o’clock last night. I’ll pick it up on my way out.’
‘That’s easy.’
He left the lodge in time to see the prosecutor and his deputy getting out of a car, together with the court clerk. All three looked cold. The fog had not yet cleared, and the steam from all their breaths mingled with it.
Handshakes. The lift. Apart from the third floor, the building was still as quiet as it had been when Maigret arrived. The people here weren’t the kind to watch out for comings and goings behind their half-opened doors, or to gather on the landings because a woman had been killed.
Moers’ technicians had set up their equipment all over the apartment, and the doctor had finished examining the body. He shook hands with Maigret.
‘What time?’ Maigret asked.
‘Between nine and midnight, roughly speaking. My guess would be eleven at the latest rather than midnight.’
‘I assume death was instantaneous?’
‘You saw her. The shot was fired at close range.’
‘From behind?’
‘From behind, and a little to the side.’
‘She seems to have been smoking a cigarette when it happened,’ Moers said. ‘It fell on the carpet and burned itself out. It’s lucky the carpet didn’t catch fire.’
‘What exactly are we dealing with?’ asked the deputy, who knew nothing yet.
‘I have no idea. Maybe a straightforward crime, though I’d be surprised.’
‘Do you have any ideas?’
‘None whatever. I’m going to have another word with the cleaning lady.’
Before reaching the kitchen, he telephoned Quai des Orfèvres and asked Lucas, who was on duty, to join him immediately. After that, he ignored the prosecutors and the technicians, who were continuing with their usual tasks.
Madame Brault had not moved. She was no longer drinking coffee, but was smoking a cigarette, which, given her physique, seemed strange.
‘I guess I’m allowed?’ she said, following the direction of Maigret’s gaze.
He sat down facing her.
‘Tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Everything you know.’
‘I’ve already told you.’
‘How did Louise Filon spend her days?’
‘I can only talk about what she did in the morning. She’d get up about ten. Or rather, she’d wake up but wouldn’t get up straight away. I’d bring her coffee, and she’d drink it in bed, and smoke and read.’
‘What kind of thing did she read?’
‘Magazines and novels. She often listened to the radio. You probably noticed one on her bedside table.’
‘Did she make any phone calls?’
‘At about eleven.’
‘Every day?’
‘Almost every day.’
‘To Pierrot?’
‘Yes. Sometimes at midday she’d dress and go out to eat, but that was quite rare. Most of the time, she’d send me to the pork butcher’s to buy cold meats or ready-made dishes.’
‘Do you have any idea how she spent her afternoo
ns?’
‘I assume she went out. She must have gone out because in the morning I’d find dirty shoes. I suppose she did the rounds of the shops, like all women.’
‘Did she have dinner at home?’
‘There weren’t usually any dirty dishes.’
‘Do you suppose she went to meet Pierrot?’
‘Him or another man.’
‘Are you sure you’ve never seen him?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Did you ever see any other men?’
‘Only the man from the gas company or a delivery boy.’
‘When was the last time you were in prison?’
‘Six years ago.’
‘Have you lost the taste for shoplifting from department stores?’
‘I’m not as fast as I used to be . . . They’re taking away the body.’
There were noises from the living room, and it was indeed the men from the Forensic Institute.
‘She didn’t get to enjoy it for long!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean she lived in poverty until she was twenty-four and then had barely two good years.’
‘Did she confide in you?’
‘We chatted like human beings.’
‘Did she tell you where she was from?’
‘She was born in the eighteenth arrondissement, practically in the street. She spent most of her life around La Chapelle. When she moved here, she thought it was going to be the good life.’
‘Wasn’t she happy?’
The cleaning lady shrugged, looking at Maigret with a kind of pity, as if surprised that he seemed to show so little understanding. ‘Do you think it was fun for her to live in a building like this, where people didn’t even condescend to look at her when they passed her on the stairs?’
‘Why did she come here?’
‘She must have had her reasons.’
‘Was it her musician who kept her?’
‘Who told you about the musician?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Is Pierrot a saxophone player?’
‘I think so. I know he plays in a dance hall.’
She was only saying what she wanted to say. Now that Maigret had a clearer idea of the kind of girl Louise Filon had been, he felt certain that in the mornings the two women had chatted away to their hearts’ content.
‘I don’t think a dance-hall musician would be in a position to pay the rent of an apartment like this,’ he said.
‘Neither do I.’
‘So?’
‘So there must have been someone else,’ she said calmly.
‘Pierrot came to see her last night.’
She didn’t start, continued looking him in the eyes. ‘And I assume you’ve jumped to the conclusion that he was the one who killed her? There’s only one thing I can tell you: they loved each other.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Not only did they love each other, but their one dream was to get married.’
‘Why didn’t they?’
‘Maybe because they didn’t have any money. Maybe also because the other man wouldn’t let her go.’
‘The other man?’
‘You know perfectly well I’m talking about the one who paid. Do I have to draw you a picture?’
An idea occurred to Maigret, and he went to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. From it, he took a pair of men’s slippers in frosted kidskin, made to measure by a bootmaker in Rue Saint-Honoré, one of the most expensive in Paris. Taking down the dressing gown, which was of thick maroon silk, he found that it bore the label of a shirt maker in Rue de Rivoli.
Moers’ men had already left. Moers himself was waiting for Maigret in the living room.
‘What did you find?’
‘Prints, obviously, some old, some more recent.’
‘Men’s prints?’
‘One man, at least. We’ll have some pictures in an hour.’
‘Pass them on to Records. I’d like you to take these slippers and this dressing gown. When you get to headquarters, hand them over to Janvier or Torrence. I’d like them to be shown to the shopkeepers who supplied them.’
‘For the slippers, it’ll be easy, I assume, because they have an order number on them.’
It was quiet again in the apartment, and Maigret went back to the cleaning lady in the kitchen.
‘You don’t need to stay here any more.’
‘Can I clean?’
‘Not yet, not today.’
‘What should I do?’
‘You can go home. But don’t leave Paris. It may be that—’
‘All right, got it.’
‘Are you sure you have nothing else to tell me?’
‘If I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’
‘One more question: are you sure that, from the time you found the body to the time Inspector Dupeu arrived, you didn’t leave the apartment?’
‘I swear.’
‘And nobody came in?’
‘Not a soul.’
She went and took down a shopping bag she probably always carried with her, and Maigret made sure there was no gun in it.
‘Search me, if you feel like it.’
He didn’t search her, but to set his mind at rest, and not without a touch of embarrassment, he passed his hands over her loose dress.
‘That would have given you a thrill in the old days.’
She left, probably passing Lucas on the stairs. His hat and coat were wet.
‘Is it raining?’
‘It started ten minutes ago. What do you want me to do, chief?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I’d like you to stay here. If anyone phones, try to find out where the call is coming from. There may be a call at about eleven. Tell the office to put a tap on the line. Apart from that, keep searching here. It’s been done, but you never know.’
‘What exactly are we dealing with?’
‘A girl who used to walk the streets in Barbès and was set up in her own place by someone. As far as we know, she was in love with a dance-hall musician.’
‘Was he the one who killed her?’
‘He came to see her last night. The concierge says nobody else came up here.’
‘Do we have a description of him?’
‘I’m going down to question the concierge again.’
The concierge was busy sorting through the second post. According to her, Pierrot was a fair-haired, well-built man of about thirty who looked more like a butcher’s boy than a musician.
‘Do you have anything else to tell me?’
‘No, nothing else, Monsieur Maigret. If I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’
It was strange. The same answer, or almost, as the cleaning lady. He was convinced that both women, doubtless for different reasons, were avoiding telling him all they knew.
As he would probably have to walk all the way to Place de l’Étoile to find a taxi, he turned up the collar of his coat and set off, his hands in his pockets like the people Madame Maigret had seen from the window that morning. The fog had turned into a fine, chilly rain of the kind associated with head colds, and he went into a little bar on the corner of the street and ordered a toddy.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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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 Maigret a peur by
Presses de la Cité 1953
This translation first published 2017
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1953
Translation copyright © Ros Schwartz, 2017
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
Cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-141-98400-1
Maigret is Afraid Page 15
