Maigret and the Tall Woman

by Georges Simenon

  ‘You don’t have a dog any more?’

  ‘Not for four years, since Bibi died.’

  ‘No cat?’

  ‘My daughter-in-law hated cats. You see? I’m talking about her in the past tense because we now consider that period of our lives to be over.’

  ‘Did all three of you sit down to dinner?’

  ‘Maria came down as I was serving the soup.’

  ‘Did you talk about anything?’

  ‘Not a thing. The meal took place in silence. I knew that, in spite of everything, Guillaume was quite upset. He comes across as a cold fish, but in fact he is a highly sensitive boy. And when you have been on such intimate terms with someone for more than two years . . .’

  Maigret and Boissier had not heard a thing, but the old lady had sharper hearing. She leaned her head as if listening. It was a mistake, because Maigret realized what the sound was and got up to open the door. There was a man, taller, broader and heavier than the inspector, looking rather shamefaced, who had clearly been listening outside the door for some time.

  His mother had not been lying when she had said he was taking a nap. His sparse hair was messed up and plastered to his forehead, and he had pulled some trousers on over his white shirt, which was unbuttoned at the collar. He was wearing carpet slippers.

  ‘Come in, Monsieur Serre,’ said Maigret.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I heard some sounds. I thought . . .’

  He talked deliberately, turning his heavy, slow gaze on each of them in turn.

  ‘These gentlemen are from the police,’ his mother explained as she stood up.

  He didn’t ask any questions, merely looked at them again and buttoned up his shirt.

  ‘Madame Serre was telling us that your wife left you the day before yesterday.’

  This time it was the old woman he looked at, with a frown. His large body was flabby, like his face, but unlike a lot of big men he did not give an impression of lightness. His skin was pale and lustreless; he had tufts of hair sprouting from his nose and ears, and his eyebrows were exceptionally bushy.

  ‘What do these gentlemen want exactly?’ he asked, enunciating each syllable distinctly.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And Maigret was at something of a loss. Boissier, for his part, wondered how the inspector was going to deal with this. These weren’t the sort of people you could give the third degree.

  ‘As it happens, Monsieur Serre, your wife merely cropped up in the conversation. Your mother told us you were having a nap, and we were just chatting idly while we waited for you. We’re here, my colleague and I’ (and Boissier derived great pleasure from hearing that word ‘colleague’) ‘because we have reason to believe that you were the victim of an attempted burglary.’

  Serre was not a man to break eye contact. On the contrary, he stared at Maigret as if trying to see his innermost thoughts.

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘We received a tip-off.’

  ‘I presume you are referring to police informers.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’

  ‘You weren’t burgled?’

  ‘If I had been, I would not have hesitated to inform the police myself.’

  He was making no attempt to be friendly. Not the faintest trace of a smile passed his lips.

  ‘Do you own a safe?’

  ‘I believe I have a right not to reply. However, I don’t see any reason not to tell you that I have one.’

  His mother was trying to signal to him, presumably to advise him not to be so truculent.

  He got the message but didn’t change his tone.

  ‘Unless I am mistaken it is a Planchart safe, installed eighteen years ago.’

  He didn’t show any reaction, He remained standing while Maigret and Boissier sat in the semi-darkness, and Maigret noticed that he had the same broad chin as the man in the portrait, and the same eyebrows. Whimsically, Maigret imagined what he would look like with sideburns.

  ‘I don’t recall when it was installed, not that it is anyone’s business but mine.’

  ‘When we came in I noticed that the front door is fitted with a security lock and a chain.’

  ‘Lots of doors are.’

  ‘Do you sleep on the first floor, you and your mother?’

  Serre pointedly refused to answer.

  ‘Are your study and your surgery on the ground floor?’

  From the old woman’s movements, Maigret understood that they were the two rooms that led on from the living room.

  ‘Do I have your permission to take a look?’

  He hesitated, opened his mouth, and Maigret felt sure he was going to say no. His mother sensed this too and pre-empted him.

  ‘Why not allow the gentlemen to do as they ask? They will be able to see for themselves that there wasn’t any break-in.’

  The man shrugged his shoulders, still looking stubborn and sullen, and he elected not to follow them into the neighbouring rooms.

  Madame Serre took them first into the study, which was as hushed and old-fashioned-looking as the living room. Behind a black leather chair there was a large safe painted dark green, of a rather old design. Boissier went up to it and examined its metal exterior with his hand.

  ‘As you see, everything is in order,’ said the old woman. ‘You mustn’t mind my son’s bad mood, but . . .’

  She fell silent as she noticed her son standing in the doorway, still glaring at them.

  Then, indicating the bound books that lined the shelves in the room, she tried to lighten the mood.

  ‘Don’t be surprised to see all these law books here. They belonged to my husband, who was a lawyer.’

  She opened a final door. The décor here was more familiar: it looked like any standard dentist’s surgery, with its reclining chair and the usual range of instruments. The lower halves of the windowpanes were frosted. As they returned to the study, Boissier went over to one of the windows, ran his fingers over it and tipped Maigret the nod.

  ‘Was this pane replaced recently?’ Maigret asked.

  The old woman replied without hesitation:

  ‘Four days ago. The window was left open during that big storm that you no doubt remember.’

  ‘Did you call in a glazier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who replaced the glass?’

  ‘My son. He likes doing odd jobs. He is always fixing things around the house.’

  Then Guillaume Serre spoke up with a note of impatience.

  ‘These gentlemen have no right to be pestering us, Mother. Don’t answer any more questions.’

  She turned her back on him and gave Maigret a smile that seemed to say:

  ‘Don’t pay any attention. I did warn you.’

  She saw them out as far as the front door, while her son stayed in the middle of the living room. Leaning over, she whispered:

  ‘If you need to talk to me, come back when he is not here.’

  They found themselves back out in the sunshine, which immediately made their clothes stick to them. Once outside the gate – even the way it squeaked evoked a convent – they spotted the green hat of Ernestine, who was sitting on the terrace of the bistro on the other side of the street.

  Maigret hesitated. He could easily have turned left and avoided her altogether. It almost felt as if they were going across to her to give her a report.

  Perhaps out of embarrassment, Maigret muttered:

  ‘Shall we have a beer?’

  Ernestine watched them approach with a questioning look.

  3.

  Where Ernestine covers her modesty with a dressing gown, and the old woman from Neuilly pays Maigret a visit

  ‘What did you do today?’ asked Madame Maigret, as they sat down to eat next to the open window.

  In the houses opposite they could see other people having dinner, identical splashes of white where the men had taken off their jackets and were in shirt-sleeves. Some had already eaten and were lean
ing out of their windows. There was a sound of music on the radio, babies crying, raised voices. One or two concierges had brought a chair to sit outside their main entrance doors.

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ Maigret replied. ‘Possible homicide of a Dutch woman, who may in fact be alive and well somewhere.’

  It was too soon to go into detail. In fact, everything had proceeded at a slow pace. They had lingered a long time on the little terrace on Rue de la Ferme, Boissier, Ernestine and him, and, of the three of them, Ernestine had been the most excited.

  She said indignantly:

  ‘Is he making out it isn’t true?’

  The owner brought them some beers.

  ‘Actually, he didn’t say anything. His mother did all the talking. He did little more than see us off the premises.’

  ‘He claims that there was no dead body in the study?’

  She had evidently got some information from the wine merchant on the inhabitants of the house behind the gate.

  ‘So why did he not inform the police that his house had been broken into?’

  ‘According to him there was no break-in.’

  Clearly familiar with Sad Freddie’s methods, she said:

  ‘Is there a pane of glass missing from the window?’

  Boissier gave Maigret a look as if to tell him to stay silent, but the inspector ignored it.

  ‘A pane has been recently replaced. It appears it was broken four or five days ago, on the night of the storm.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘Someone is lying, for sure.’

  ‘You think it’s me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. It could be Alfred.’

  ‘Why would he have told me all this over the telephone?’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ Boissier interjected, watching her closely.

  ‘Why would I have made it up? Do you think that too?’ she said, turning to Maigret.

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  He smiled vaguely. He felt good, mellow even. The beer was cool, and the shade had a flavour to it, like in the country, perhaps because the Bois de Boulogne was so close by.

  A lazy afternoon. They had drunk two beers. Then, rather than leave the girl on her own in the centre of Paris, they had taken her in a taxi and dropped her off at Châtelet.

  ‘Give me a ring as soon as you receive a letter.’

  He could sense that she was disappointed in him, that she had imagined him differently. She was probably saying to herself that he had got old, had become just like the others and was only half-heartedly pursuing the case.

  ‘Shall I postpone my holiday?’ Boissier had asked him.

  ‘I assume your wife is packing your bags?’

  ‘They’re already at the station. We’re due to take the six o’clock train tomorrow morning.’

  ‘With your daughter?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then go.’

  ‘Won’t you need my help?’

  ‘You’ve given me the file already.’

  Once he was on his own in his office, he almost had a nap in his chair. The wasp had gone. The sun had passed over to the other side of the embankment. Lucas had been on holiday since midday. He called Janvier, who had already taken his holiday back in June, to attend a family wedding.

  ‘Sit down. I have a job for you. Have you finished your report?’

  ‘I’ve just completed it.’

  ‘Good. Now, write this down. First I want you to go to the town hall in Neuilly and find the maiden name of a Dutch woman who, two years ago, married one Guillaume Serre, resident at 43a, Rue de la Ferme.’

  ‘Easy.’

  ‘Probably. She must have been living in Paris for some time. Try to find out where, what she did, who her family are, how well off she was, etc.’

  ‘Got it, chief.’

  ‘She’s supposed to have left the house on Rue de la Ferme between eight and nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, intending to take the night train to Holland. She allegedly hailed a taxi herself at the corner of Boulevard Richard-Wallace to take her and her luggage to the station.’

  Janvier was writing columns of notes in his notebook.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. Get some men to help you, to save time. I want you to question the people in the neighbourhood, tradesmen, etc., about the Serres.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘A mother and her son. The mother is nearly eighty and the son is a dentist. Try to locate the taxi. Question the station and train staff too.’

  ‘Can I use one of the cars?’

  ‘You can.’

  As for Maigret, that is more or less all he did that afternoon. He had got in touch with the Belgian police, who had received the alert about Sad Freddie but hadn’t found him yet. He had also had a long conversation with the inspector in charge of passport control at Jeumont, on the Belgian border. The latter had personally inspected the train that Alfred would have travelled on and could not recollect seeing anyone matching the safe-cracker’s description.

  That didn’t mean anything. He would just have to wait. Maigret signed off a few forms in the absence of the commissioner, went for an aperitif at the Brasserie Dauphine with his colleague from Special Branch, then took the bus home.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Madame Maigret once she had cleared the table.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  In other words, they would take a stroll down to the Grands Boulevards and end up sitting on a café terrace. The sun had set. The air had grown cooler, but there was still the occasional warm gust that seemed to rise from the pavement. The bar front had been opened up, and a depleted band was playing some music inside. Like them, most of the customers sat at their tables without a word, watching the world go by, their faces becoming more and more obscured by the dusk. Later the electric lights came on and revealed them in a new aspect. Like the other couples, Maigret and his wife ambled home, her hand in the crook of his arm.

  Then a new morning, the sun as bright as the day before.

  Instead of heading straight to the Police Judiciaire, Maigret made a detour via Quai de Jemmapes, recognized the green-painted bistro, next to the Saint-Martin Lock, with the words ‘Snacks served all day’ on the front, and went up to the bar.

  ‘A white wine.’

  Then he asked the question. The man from Auvergne serving behind the bar answered directly.

  ‘I can’t tell you exactly what time it was, but there was a telephone call. It was daytime already. Neither my wife nor I had got up, because at that time of the morning it couldn’t possibly be for us. Ernestine came down. I heard her have a long conversation.’

  That was one thing, at least, that wasn’t a lie.

  ‘What time did Alfred leave the previous evening?’

  ‘Maybe eleven o’clock? Maybe earlier? One thing I remember was that he took his bike.’

  A door from the bar gave directly on to a corridor, and from there a staircase led to the floor above. The wall of the staircase was whitewashed, as in the country. They could hear the racket of a crane discharging some sand from a barge a short distance away.

  Maigret knocked at another door, which opened. Ernestine appeared in her slip and simply said:

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Then she went straight to the unmade bed, picked up a dressing gown and slipped it on.

  Was that a smile on Maigret’s face as he remembered the Ernestine of all those years ago?

  ‘It’s an act of charity,’ she explained. ‘I’m no oil painting these days.’

  The window was open. There was a deep-red potted geranium on the sill. The cover of the bed was red too. Through an open door there was a little kitchen, from which emanated a delicious aroma of coffee.

  He didn’t really know why he had come here.

  ‘Was there anything at the poste restante yesterday evening?’

  She looked a little concerned as she replied:

  ‘Nothing.’

>   ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that he hasn’t written?’

  ‘Maybe he’s suspicious. He must be surprised that there has been nothing in the papers. He probably thinks I’m under surveillance. I was about to pop down to the post office.’

  There was an old trunk in the corner.

  ‘Are they his things?’

  ‘His and mine. We don’t have that much between us.’

  Then, giving him a meaningful look:

  ‘Do you want to look round? Of course you do! I understand. You have to do it. You will find some tools, as he has a spare set, as well as two old suits, a few dresses and some linen.’

  As she spoke she emptied the trunk on to the floor and opened all the drawers of a chest.

  ‘I’ve thought about what you said yesterday. I understand – someone must be lying. It’s either those people, the mother and her son, or it’s Alfred, or it’s me. You have no more reason to believe us than the others.’

  ‘Does Alfred have any family in the country?’

  ‘He has no family anywhere. He only ever had his mother, and she died twenty years ago.’

  ‘Did you ever go anywhere together outside of Paris?’

  ‘No further than Corbeil.’

  He wouldn’t have sought refuge in Corbeil. It was too close. Maigret was starting to believe that he hadn’t gone to Belgium either.

  ‘Is there any place he spoke about, anywhere he wanted to visit one day?’

  ‘He used to talk about the country but wasn’t very specific. That meant the world to him.’

  ‘Were you born in the country?’

  ‘Near Nevers, in a hamlet called Saint-Martin-des-Prés.’

  She took a postcard from a drawer; it showed the village church with a pond opposite that served as a drinking hole for cattle.

  ‘Did you show him this?’

  She caught his drift. Girls like Ernestine cotton on fast.

  ‘I’d be surprised if he went there. He really was near Gare du Nord when he telephoned.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I found the bar last night. It’s in Rue de Maubeuge, next to a shop selling suitcases. It’s called the Bar du Levant. The owner remembered him because he was his first customer of the day. He’d just turned on the coffee maker when Alfred showed up. Would you like a cup of coffee?’