The Judge's House
Page 1
Georges Simenon
* * *
THE JUDGE’S HOUSE
Translated by Howard Curtis
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
penguin.com
First published in French as La Maison du juge by Éditions Gallimard 1942
This translation first published 2015
Copyright © 1942 by Georges Simenon Limited
Translation copyright © 2015 by Howard Curtis
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved.
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ISBN 978-1-101-99186-2
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos
Cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
Version_1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Praise for Georges Simenon
1. The Customs Officer’s Wife
2. ‘Hold on a Minute …’
3. The Airaud Trail
4. Under the Eyes of La République
5. Someone Wants to Go to Prison
6. The Two Englishwomen of Versailles
7. ‘Ask the Inspector …’
8. The Potato Eaters
9. The ‘Singing Session’
10. Didine’s Little Dishes
11. The Doctor’s Maid
EXTRA: Chapter 1 from Signed, Picpus
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.
Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic:
My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points …‘understand and judge not’.
Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.
PENGUIN CLASSICS
THE JUDGE’S HOUSE
‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’
– William Faulkner
‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’
– Muriel Spark
‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’
– A. N. Wilson
‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories’
– Guardian
‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’
– Peter Ackroyd
‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’
– André Gide
‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’
– Observer
‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’
– Anita Brookner
‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’
– P. D. James
‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’
– Independent
‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’
– John Gray
‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’
– John Banville
1. The Customs Officer’s Wife
‘Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight …’ Maigret counted.
He didn’t want to count. It was mechanical. His head was empty, his eyelids heavy.
‘Sixty-one, sixty-two …’
He glanced outside. The bottom halves of the windows in the Café Français were frosted. Above the frosted section, all you could see were the bare trees on the square and the rain, the never-ending rain.
‘Eighty-three, eighty-four …’
He was standing there, his billiard cue in his hand, and he could see himself in the mirrors that covered the walls of the café.
And Monsieur Le Flem, the owner, carried on playing, never saying a word, quite relaxed, as if this was all perfectly natural. He would go from one side of the green baize to the other, bend down then straighten up again, watching the movement of the balls with a distant look in his eyes.
‘A hundred and twenty-two … A hundred and twenty-three …’
The room was vast. Near the window, the maid, a middle-aged woman, was sewing. That was all. Nothing but the three of them! With a cat sitting by the stove.
And it was only three o’clock! And it was only 13 January. Maigret could see the figure on a big calendar hanging behind the cash register. And it had been like this for three months! And …
He hadn’t complained to anybody. Even Madame Maigret didn’t know why he had fallen into disgrace and been transferred to Luçon. This was the hidden face of the profession, of no concern to those outside.
Madame Maigret was here, too, in an apartment they had rented above a piano shop, and they had already had some brushes with the landlord because … Well, never mind!
‘How many points is that?’ Monsieur Le Flem asked, not sure when to stop.
‘A hundred and fifty …’
Maigret puffed gently at his pipe. Come on! A hundred and forty-seven, a hundred and forty-eight, a hundred and forty-nine, a hundred and fifty! The balls froze on the billiard table, the whites a nasty yellow, the red an unhealthy pink. The cues were placed back in their rack. Monsieur Le Flem went to the beer pump and poured two glasses, taking the heads off them with the help of a wooden knife.
‘Cheers.’
What else could they have said to each other?
‘It’s still raining …’
Maigret put on his overcoat, placed his bowler hat well forward on his head and, a few moments later, his hands in his pockets, was walking along the streets of the town in the falling rain.
He opened the door to his office, its walls covered with administrative posters. His nose puckered at the smell of Inspector Méjat’s brilliantine, a sickly odour that even ten pipes could not have overcome.
An old lady in a bonnet, with a shrivelled face, was sitting there on a chair, holding a huge dripping umbrella, of the kind common in the Vendée, in front of her. There was already a long trail of water on the floor, as if a dog had been caught short.
‘What is it?’ Maigret asked, walking through the barrier and leaning down towards his one inspector.
‘It’s for you. She only wants to talk to you.’
‘What do you mean, to me? Did she say my name?’
‘She asked for Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
The old woman realized they were talking about her and pursed her lips in a dignified manner. Before taking his coat o
ff, Maigret, out of habit, fiddled with some of the papers awaiting him on his desk: the usual routine, a few Poles to keep an eye on, missing identity cards, rescindments of residence permits …
‘I’m listening, madame. Please stay where you are. But before we start, I have a question for you: who told you my name?’
‘My husband, inspector … Justin Hulot … When you see him, you’re bound to remember him, he has the kind of face you can’t forget. He was a customs officer in Concarneau when you were there on a case. He read in the paper that you’d been appointed to Luçon … Yesterday, when he realized the body was still in the room, he told me …’
‘Excuse me! What body is this we’re talking about?’
‘The one in the judge’s house.’
Clearly a woman who wouldn’t be easily intimidated! For the moment, Maigret was looking at her without a great deal of interest, not suspecting that this sixty-four-year-old woman he had before him, Adine Hulot, would soon become much more familiar to him and that, like everyone else, he would end up calling her Didine.
‘First of all, I should tell you that my husband has retired and that we’ve moved to the village I come from, L’Aiguillon … I have a little house there, near the harbour, which I inherited from my late uncle … I don’t suppose you know L’Aiguillon?
‘That’s what I thought. In that case, it won’t be easy for you to understand … But who else could I turn to? Not the local policeman, who’s drunk all day long and can’t be bothered … The mayor’s only interested in his mussels …’
‘His mussels?’ Maigret echoed.
‘He’s a mussel farmer, like my late uncle, like almost everybody in L’Aiguillon. He breeds mussels …’
That idiot Inspector Méjat saw fit to laugh sarcastically at this, and Maigret threw him an icy glance.
‘You were saying, madame …’
She didn’t need any encouragement. She was taking her time. She, too, had underlined with a glance the inappropriateness of Méjat’s laughter.
‘There are no stupid professions.’
‘Of course not! Please go on.’
‘The village of L’Aiguillon is quite far from the harbour. Not many people live there, only about twenty. The largest house is the judge’s …’
‘One moment. Who is this judge?’
‘Forlacroix, his name is. He used to be a justice of the peace in Versailles. I think he got into trouble, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that the government forced him to resign …’
She clearly didn’t like the judge! And, small and wrinkled as she was, it was obvious this little old woman wasn’t afraid to express her opinions about people!
‘Tell me about the body. Is it the judge?’
‘Unfortunately not! That kind of person never gets murdered!’
Excellent! Maigret had his answer, and Méjat laughed into his handkerchief.
‘If you don’t let me tell the story in my own way, you’ll get me all mixed up … What day is it today? The 13th … My God, I hadn’t even thought of that …’
She hastened to touch wood, then to make the sign of the cross.
‘It was the day before yesterday, in other words, the 11th. The previous evening, they’d had people over …’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘The Forlacroixs … Dr Brénéol, with his wife and daughter, I mean his wife’s daughter, because … It’s a long story … Anyway, they’d had their little party, as they do every two weeks.They play cards until midnight, then they make a great racket starting their cars …’
‘You seem to know a lot about what goes on in your neighbours’ house.’
‘I told you, our house – or rather, my late uncle’s house – is more or less behind theirs. So even without meaning to …’
A gleam had come into the inspector’s eyes that would have pleased Madame Maigret. He was smoking in a particular way, with short puffs, and he went and stoked the stove and then stood there with his back to the fire.
‘About the body …’
‘The next morning … I did say it was the 11th, didn’t I? … The next morning, my husband took advantage of the fact that it was dry to prune the apple trees. I held the ladder. From up there, he could see over the wall. He was level with the first floor of the judge’s house … One of the windows was open … Suddenly he comes back down and tells me, just like that:
‘“Didine …” My name’s Adine, but everybody calls me Didine … “Didine,” he says, “there’s someone lying on the floor in the bedroom …”
‘“Lying on the floor?” I said. I didn’t believe it. “Why would they be lying on the floor when there are plenty of beds in the house?”
‘“That’s the way it is … I’m going back up to have another look …”
‘He goes back up. He comes down again … He’s a man who never drinks and who, when he says something … And he’s a man who thinks. After all, he was a public employee for thirty-five years …
‘All day, I can see him thinking, thinking. After lunch he goes for his walk. He stops off at the Hôtel du Port …
‘“It’s odd!” he says when he comes back. “Nobody came in on the bus yesterday and nobody saw any cars.”
‘It was bothering him, you see? He asks me to hold the ladder for him again. He tells me the man is still lying on the floor …
‘That evening, he watched the lights until they went off …’
‘What lights?’
‘The lights in the judge’s house. The thing is, they never close the shutters at the back. They think nobody can see them. Well, the judge came into the room and stayed there for a long time.
‘My husband got dressed again and ran outside …’
‘Why?’
‘In case the judge got the idea of throwing the body in the water … But he came back soon after …
‘“It’s low tide,” he says. “You’d have to wade through mud up to your neck …”
‘The next day …’
Maigret was dumbfounded. He had seen some strange things in the course of his career, but these two elderly people, the retired customs officer and Didine, spying on the judge’s house from their home, keeping the ladder up …
‘The next day, the body was still there, in the same position.’
She looked at Maigret as if proclaiming: ‘You see, we were right!’
‘My husband watched the house all day. At two o’clock, the judge went for his usual walk with his daughter …’
‘Ah! The judge has a daughter …’
‘I’ll tell you about her some other time! A whole other kettle of fish, that one! He also has a son … But it’s too complicated to … When your man there behind us has stopped laughing, I may be able to continue …’
One in the eye for Méjat!
‘Last night, high tide was at 9.26 in the evening … He still couldn’t do anything, you see? … Up until midnight, there are always people around. After midnight, there wouldn’t have been enough water any more. So my husband and I decided that, while he kept his eye on them, I’d come and see you. I took the nine o’clock bus. That gentleman told me you might not be coming today, but I realized he was trying to get rid of me. My husband said to me: “Tell the inspector that it’s the customs officer from Concarneau, the one who has a little defect in his eye … And also tell him that I looked at the body through sailors’ binoculars, and the man isn’t someone from around here … There’s a stain on the floor that must be blood …”’
‘Excuse me,’ Maigret interrupted. ‘What time is the bus for L’Aiguillon?’
‘It’s already gone.’
‘How many kilometres, Méjat?’
Méjat had a look on the wall map of the region.
‘About thirty.’
‘Phone for a taxi.’
He didn’t care if Didine and her customs officer were crazy! He was prepared to pay the taxi fare out of his own pocket!
‘If you don’t mind stopping the cab just b
efore the harbour, so that I can get out and they don’t see me with you. It’s better to act as if we don’t know each other. People in L’Aiguillon are so suspicious … You’ll be able to stay at the Hôtel du Port. It’s the better of the two.That’s where you’ll see just about everybody after dinner. If you can get the room that looks out on the roof of the ballroom, you’ll even be able to see the judge’s house …’
‘Inform my wife, Méjat.’
Night had fallen, and the world seemed to have turned to water. The old woman appreciated the comfort of the taxi, which had previously been a chauffeur-driven car. The crystal flower holder delighted her, as did the electric ceiling light.
‘I say, the things they make! The rich are so lucky.’
The marshes … Vast flat expanses, crisscrossed by canals, with the occasional low farmhouse, known as cabins in the Vendée, and the piles of cow pats which, when caked, are used as fuel …
Something was stirring dimly in Maigret’s soul, a kind of hope. He didn’t yet dare give in to it. Could it be that right here, deep in the Vendée, where he had been exiled, chance was going to bring him …
‘I almost forgot. This evening, high tide is at 10.51 …’
Wasn’t it staggering to hear this little old lady speaking with such precision?
‘If he wants to get rid of the body, he’ll take advantage of that. There’s a bridge over the Lay that reaches to the harbour. From eleven o’clock, my husband will be on the bridge. If you want to talk to him …’
She knocked on the glass.
‘Drop me here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’
And she plunged into the liquid darkness, her umbrella swelling like a balloon. Soon afterwards, Maigret got out of the taxi outside the Hôtel du Port.
‘Want me to wait?’
‘No, you might as well go back to Luçon.’
Men in blue, some of them fishermen, others mussel farmers, and bottles of white and rosé wine on long tables of varnished pitch pine. Then a kitchen. Then a ballroom that was only used on Sundays. It all smelled new. White walls. A ceiling of white pine. A staircase as flimsy as a toy and a room that was also white, an iron bedstead covered in gloss paint, cretonne curtains.