Maigret and the Tall Woman

by Georges Simenon

  ‘“It’s over. At a stroke I decided to leave. I haven’t spoken about it to anyone yet. The old woman doesn’t suspect a thing. She is always the same with me: soft and smiling, as long as I do what she wants.

  ‘“She is the most selfish woman I have ever met.”

  ‘Those last words are underlined,’ said the translator. ‘There’s more.

  ‘“As for G, I sometimes wonder whether he’d actually be relieved to see me go. He’s known since the start that we have nothing in common. I’ve never been able to get used to the feel of his skin, the smell of him. Can you see now why we don’t share the same room, which so surprised you at first?

  ‘“After two and a half years, it is exactly as if I had just met him in the street or in the Métro, and he still makes me shudder every time he comes into my bed, which fortunately is not very often.

  ‘“Between you and me I think the only reason he comes is because he thinks it gives me pleasure, or simply out of a sense of duty.

  ‘“Perhaps his mother tells him to? It’s possible. Don’t laugh. I don’t know what it’s like with your husband, but with G he’s like a browbeaten child doing his lines. Do you understand what I’m saying?

  ‘“I’ve often wondered if it was the same with his first wife. I wouldn’t be surprised. He’d be like this with anyone. These people – I mean the mother and her son – live in a world of their own and don’t need anyone else.

  ‘“It’s hard to believe that the old woman was ever married. They never talk about him. Apart from them, there is nobody else in the world except the people in the portraits on the walls, dead people, but people they talk about as if they were more alive than all the living people on earth.

  ‘“I can’t take any more, Gertrude. Soon I’ll speak to G. I’ll tell him that I need to breathe the air of my own country. He’ll understand. What I don’t know is how he’ll summon up the courage to talk to his mother about it—”’

  ‘Is there a lot more?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘Seven pages.’

  ‘Carry on translating. I’ll be back.’

  At the door he turned round.

  ‘If you feel hungry or thirsty, phone down to the Brasserie Dauphine. Order anything you like.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  From the corridor he could see through the glass walls of the waiting room old Madame Serre sitting on one of the green velvet chairs. She sat bolt upright, her hands crossed on her lap. When she spotted Maigret she made a move as if to stand up, but he just walked past and headed for the stairs.

  The interrogation had barely begun, yet it was still a surprise to see life carrying on as normal outside, in the sunshine, people coming and going, taxis, buses, with men standing on the platform reading their newspapers on the way home from work.

  ‘Rue Gay-Lussac,’ he said to the driver. ‘I’ll tell you where to stop.’

  The tall trees in the Jardin du Luxembourg quivered in the breeze, and all the chairs were occupied. There were lots of women in light summer dresses, and a few children were still playing on the paths.

  ‘Is Maître Orin at home?’ he asked the concierge.

  ‘He hasn’t been out for more than a month, the poor man.’

  Maigret suddenly brought him to mind. He was probably the oldest lawyer in Paris. The inspector didn’t know his age, but he was already old when he had first come across him, and partially disabled, not that that stopped him smiling and talking about women with a twinkle in his eye.

  He lived with a maid who was almost as old as him in a bachelor’s apartment stuffed full of books and engravings, which he collected. Most of the prints were rather racy in content.

  Orin was sitting in a chair in front of an open window with a blanket over his knees, despite the temperature.

  ‘Well, young man, what ill wind blows you here? I was beginning to think that everybody had forgotten me or else thought I’d croaked years ago and been dispatched to Père-Lachaise. What can I do for you this time?’

  He wasn’t under any illusion, and Maigret blushed slightly, since it was true he had rarely paid the lawyer a visit without some ulterior motive.

  ‘I was just wondering whether, by any chance, you might have known someone called Serre, who, if I’m not mistaken, died about thirty-two or thirty-three years ago.’

  ‘Alain Serre?’

  ‘He was a lawyer.’

  ‘That was Alain.’

  ‘What sort of man was he?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me what all this is about?’

  ‘His son.’

  ‘Never met the boy. I knew he had a kid, but our paths never crossed. You see, Maigret, Alain and I were part of a fun-loving crowd for whom domestic bliss was not the be-all and end-all. You’d be more likely to find us in our club or backstage at the variety shows. We knew all the dancing girls by their first names.’

  He added, with a rather louche smile:

  ‘If you know what I mean!’

  ‘Did you know his wife?’

  ‘I must have been introduced at some point. Didn’t she live in Neuilly or somewhere? Alain went out of circulation for a few years. He wasn’t the first one to succumb. There were even some who, once they got married, rather looked down their noses at us. I didn’t think I’d see him again. Then, a good while afterwards—’

  ‘How long afterwards?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s think. The gang had upped sticks from Faubourg Saint-Honoré to Avenue Hoche by then. Ten, twelve years maybe? Anyway, he came back. He acted a bit oddly at first, as if he was worried we bore him a grudge for jumping ship.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Nothing much. He made up for lost time. Let’s think. He was with a girl for a while, little singer, big mouth . . . What’s her name? . . . We had a nickname for her, something filthy . . . Ah, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did he drink?’

  ‘No more than most. Two or three bottles of champagne occasionally . . .’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Same thing that happens to us all in the end. He died.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘If you want to know what happened next, young man, you’d better ask him upstairs. This is St Peter’s department, not mine. What misdeed is his son supposed to have committed?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. His wife has disappeared.’

  ‘A playboy?’

  ‘No. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Juliette! Bring us something to drink!’

  Maigret was stuck there for another quarter of an hour while the old man insisted on searching through his prints for a sketch of the singer.

  ‘I can’t promise you that it’s a good likeness. But it was done by a very talented fellow one evening when we all had a party at his studio.’

  The girl was naked and walking on her hands. Her face was obscured for the simple reason that her hair was trailing along the floor.

  ‘Come again, my dear Maigret. If you’d had the time to share in my humble meal . . .’

  A bottle of wine was breathing in a corner of the room, and the apartment was filled with good cooking smells.

  The police in Rouen had been no more successful in finding Sad Freddie than that in Le Havre. The ace safe-cracker probably wasn’t even still in town. Was he on his way back to Paris? Had he read Ernestine’s ad?

  Maigret had sent one of his inspectors on a mission along the riverbank.

  ‘Where should I start?’

  ‘As far upstream as you can manage.’

  He had telephoned his wife to let her know that he wouldn’t be home for dinner.

  ‘Will I see you at all tonight?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  He wasn’t too hopeful. He himself knew that he had made a big decision when he tried to move things forwards quickly and hauled in Guillaume Serre for questioning without the slightest shred of evidence.

  Now it was too late. He couldn’t back down.

  He felt weighed down, i
rritable. He sat down on the terrace of the Brasserie Dauphine but, having read the menu from beginning to end, merely ordered a sandwich and a glass of beer, as he didn’t feel at all hungry.

  He went back up the stairs at the Police Judiciaire with slow steps. The lamps had been turned on, even though it was still light outside. Once his head emerged at first-floor level he automatically glanced into the waiting room, and the first thing he spotted was that green hat that was really beginning to get on his nerves.

  Ernestine was sitting facing Madame Serre, with her hands on her lap, just like the old woman, and with the same patient and resigned look on her face. She spotted him straight away but reacted only with a fixed stare and a slight shake of the head.

  He understood this to mean that she didn’t want to be recognized. Then she went back to talking to the old woman, as though they had struck up an acquaintance some time earlier.

  He shrugged his shoulders and opened the door to the inspectors’ room. The stenographer was at work, a wad of paper on his lap. Janvier’s weary voice could be heard, along with the beat of his footsteps as he paced up and down in the office.

  ‘You state, Monsieur Serre, that your wife went to hail a taxi at the corner of Boulevard Richard-Wallace. How long was she away from the house?’

  Before relieving Janvier, he went upstairs to Moers’ attic. The latter was busy filing documents.

  ‘So, my friend, apart from traces of brick dust, you found nothing else in the car?’

  ‘The car had been given a thorough clean.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I was lucky to find the brick dust. It was caught in a fold in the mat under the driver’s seat.’

  ‘What if the car hadn’t been cleaned and the driver had got out on a country road?’

  ‘A paved road?’

  ‘No. As I say, let us assume that he and the person who was with him got out to go for a walk on this path and then got back into the car.’

  ‘And the car didn’t get cleaned afterwards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There would be traces. Maybe not a lot. But I would have found them.’

  ‘That’s all I needed to know. Don’t leave yet.’

  ‘Understood. By the way, I found two hairs in the room of the woman who disappeared. She was a natural blonde, but dyed her hair a strawberry blonde. I also know the make of rice powder that she used.’

  Maigret walked back downstairs and this time went into his office, removing his jacket as he entered. He had been smoking his pipe all afternoon. Janvier had been smoking cigarettes, and Serre, cigars. The air was blue with smoke, which hung around the light like a fog.

  ‘Are you thirsty, Monsieur Serre?’

  ‘Your inspector gave me a glass of water.’

  Janvier went out.

  ‘Would you rather have a glass of beer, or wine?’

  He still resented these little traps of Maigret.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘A sandwich?’

  ‘Are you planning on keeping me here much longer?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It’s possible. It depends on you.’

  He went to the door and spoke to the inspectors.

  ‘Could someone fetch me a road map of the Fontainebleau area?’

  He took his time. This was nothing but words; he was just scratching the surface.

  ‘When you go out for a bite, bring back some sandwiches and beers, Janvier.’

  ‘OK, chief.’

  Someone brought him the road map.

  ‘Show me the spot where you stopped the car on Sunday.’

  Serre looked at the map for a moment, picked up a pencil from the desk and marked a cross where the road crossed a country lane.

  ‘If there is a farm with a red roof on the left, that’s the right path.’

  ‘How long were you walking for?’

  ‘About a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘Were you wearing the same shoes as today?’

  He thought about this, looked at his shoes and nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  These shoes had rubber heels on which concentric circles had been imprinted around the name of the manufacturer.

  ‘Don’t you think, Monsieur Serre, that it would be a lot easier and less tiring for all concerned if you simply owned up? At what point did you kill your wife?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  Maigret sighed and went to give more instructions next door. Too bad! This was going to take a few hours more. The dentist’s complexion was looking a bit paler than in the morning, and he was starting to get rings under his eyes.

  ‘Why did you marry her?’

  ‘My mother advised me to.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘She was afraid that I’d be left on my own one day. She thinks I am still a child and need someone to take care of me.’

  ‘And to prevent you from drinking?’

  Silence.

  ‘So there was no love between you and Maria Van Aerts?’

  ‘We were both of us touching fifty.’

  ‘When did the arguments begin?’

  ‘We never argued.’

  ‘How did you spend your evenings, Monsieur Serre?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Reading, mainly, in my study.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘Writing, in her room. She went to bed early.’

  ‘Did your father lose a lot of money?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that your father used to lead a wild life?’

  ‘He went out a lot.’

  ‘Did he spend a lot?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did your mother make a scene about this?’

  ‘We aren’t the sort of people who make scenes.’

  ‘How much did your first marriage net you?’

  ‘I don’t think we are speaking the same language.’

  ‘Did you and your first wife marry under the laws of common property?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘So she had a fortune. And you inherited it.’

  ‘That’s normal, isn’t it?’

  ‘As long as your second wife’s body goes undiscovered, you won’t be able to inherit from her.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she be found alive?’

  ‘Do you think she will, Serre?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Why did you go out in your car on Tuesday evening?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘The concierge of the building opposite saw you. It was around midnight.’

  ‘You are forgetting that there are three garages, three former stables, whose doors adjoin each other. It was night time, as you yourself said. She could have been mistaken.’

  ‘The shopkeeper at the hardware shop saw you in broad daylight, so could not have mistaken you for someone else, when you came to buy some putty and a second windowpane.’

  ‘It’s my word against his.’

  ‘Provided that you didn’t kill your wife. What did you do with the suitcases and the trunk?’

  ‘It’s the third time I’ve been asked this question. This time you forgot to mention the tools.’

  ‘Where were you around midnight on Tuesday?’

  ‘In my bed.’

  ‘Are you a light sleeper, Monsieur Serre?’

  ‘Me, no. My mother is.’

  ‘Neither of you heard anything?’

  ‘I believe I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘And on Wednesday morning you found your house in order?’

  ‘I suppose, since an official investigation is underway, that you have the right to question me. And you have decided to put me through a test of endurance, haven’t you? Your colleague has already asked me these questions. Now you are starting all over again. I can see that this is likely to take all night. To save time, I will repeat once and for all that I did not
kill my wife. I am also telling you that I will no longer give replies to questions I have already been asked. Is my mother here?’

  ‘Do you have reason to think she is here?’

  ‘Does that seem strange to you?’

  ‘She is sitting in the waiting room.’

  ‘Are you planning to keep her here all night?’

  ‘I can’t stop her. She is free to do as she wishes.’

  This time, Guillaume Serre gave him a hate-filled look.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to do your job.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.’

  They stared at each other in silence, neither wanting to break eye contact first.

  ‘You killed your wife, Serre, just as, in all likelihood, you killed your first wife.’

  Serre did not react.

  ‘You will admit it in the end.’

  The dentist’s mouth curled into a contemptuous smile and he slumped back into his chair, crossing his legs.

  Next door they could hear the sound of the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine laying out plates and glasses on the desk.

  ‘I will take up your offer of some food.’

  ‘Do you wish to remove your jacket?’

  ‘No.’

  He started slowly eating a sandwich while Maigret went to the wash-basin in the closet to fill his glass.

  It was eight o’clock in the evening.

  The windows gradually got darker, and the view outside became reduced to pinpoints of light that seemed to be as distant as the stars.

  Maigret had to send out for some more tobacco. At eleven o’clock, the dentist was smoking his last cigar, and the atmosphere was becoming more and more heavy. On two occasions Maigret went for a walk round the building and saw the two women in the waiting room. The second time, they had drawn their chairs closer together and were chatting away like two old friends.

  ‘When did you last clean your car?’

  ‘The last time it was cleaned was two weeks ago, in a garage in Neuilly, when I took it in for an oil change.’

  ‘Has it been cleaned again since Sunday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You see, Monsieur Serre, we have just carried out a conclusive experiment. One of my inspectors, who, like you, was wearing rubber-heeled shoes, went to the crossing you pointed out on the Fontainebleau road. Just as you claimed to have done on Sunday with your mother, he got out of the car and walked down the country path. It was not paved. Then he got back into the car and returned here.