Georges Simenon
Maigret
The Shadow in the Courtyard
A book in the Inspector Maigret series
1934
Maigret is called to the Place des Vosges, where the owner of a drug company, Raymond Couchet, has been found shot to death, seated at his desk. Behind him, the empty safe, unlocked, but unreachable with him in his chair. Maigret wonders if the robbery and murder were two separate crimes. He soon becomes convinced that the answer lies among the residents of the block of apartments. Couchet’s former wife, Juliette Martin and her husband live across the square. His girlfriend, Nine Moinard, a sometime dancer, lives in the Hôtel Pigalle, and in the next room lives Couchet’s son, Roger Couchet.
Mrs. Martin comes to Maigret’s office, and Maigret visits her home to return a forgotten umbrella, where he discovers that the window overlooks Couchet’s office. Both Mrs. and Mr. Edgar Martin had been seen scavenging among the rubbish bins the night of the crime. Roger commits suicide, jumping out of his hotel window, and Couchet’s will is found, leaving a third of his fortune to his wife, his ex-wife, and his girlfriend. Mrs. Martin becomes ill, and Maigret’s suspicion’s focus on the Martins. Mr. Martin heads for the Belgian border, with Maigret in pursuit, and they return to his apatment for a final confrontation, where it turns out his wife nagged him into robbing the safe while Couchet was away at the toilet, but he forgot his glove on the desk. She went down to the office with a revolver, was caught by Couchet, who threatened to call the police, and she shot him. Her husband, feeling guilty, tossed the money into the Seine, and didn’t realize his wife was the murderer till later. His run to Belgium had been to establish her innocence, so that she could inherit. Apprehended, she loses her mind.
1
The Shadow Against the Window
It was ten o’clock at night. The iron gates of the garden were shut, the Place des Vosges deserted, with gleaming car tracks on the asphalt and the unbroken murmur of the fountains, the leafless trees and the monotonous outline of identical roofs silhouetted against the sky.
Under the arcades which form a tremendous girdle round the Square there were few lights. Only in three or four shops. Inspector Maigret saw a family eating in one of them, amidst a clutter of beaded funeral wreaths.
He tried to read the numbers over the doors, but he had scarcely got beyond the shop with the wreaths when a small female figure emerged from the darkness.
“Are you the person I spoke to on the telephone?”
She must have been keeping watch for a long time. In spite of the November chill, she was wearing no coat over her apron. Her nose was red and her eyes worried.
Less than a hundred yards away, at the corner of the rue de Béarn, a uniformed policeman was on duty.
“Didn’t you tell him?” grumbled Maigret.
“No, because of Madame de Saint-Marc, who’s having a baby…Look, there’s the doctor’s car. They’ve had to send for him in a hurry…”
Three cars were parked beside the pavement, with their sidelights on and rear lamps glowing red. There was an uncertain pallor about the sky, where clouds drifted over a moon-drenched expanse; almost a hint of snow in the air.
The concierge turned in under the arched entrance to the block of flats, which was lit by a dusty twenty-five-watt lamp.
“I’ll explain…Here’s the courtyard…You have to cross it to get into any part of the house, except the two shops…This is my lodge on the left…Don’t take any notice…I hadn’t time to put the children to bed…”
There were two of them in the untidy kitchen, a boy and a girl. But the concierge did not go in there. She pointed out a long building at the far end of the spacious, well-proportioned courtyard.
“It’s there…Now you’ll understand…”
Maigret looked with some curiosity at this odd little woman, whose fluttering hands betrayed her excitement.
“Somebody’s asking to speak to an inspector on the phone,” he had been told a short while ago at Police Headquarters.
He heard a muffled voice. He repeated three or four times:
“Speak up…I can’t hear you…”
“I can’t…I’m speaking from the tobacconist’s…so…”
And then a rambling message.
“Somebody must come along at once to 61 Place des Vosges…Yes…I think there’s been a crime…But don’t let anybody know yet…”
And now the concierge was pointing to the tall windows on the first floor. Behind the curtains, shadows could be seen moving to and fro.
“That’s where…”
“The crime?”
“No. Madame de Saint-Marc having her baby…Her first…She’s not very strong…You understand?”
And the courtyard was even darker than the Place des Vosges. It was lit by a single lamp, fixed to the wall. There seemed to be a staircase behind a glazed door, and here and there lighted windows.
“But what about the crime?”
“Well. At six o’clock, the staff of Couchet’s went home…”
“One minute. What’s Couchet’s?”
“The building at the end…A laboratory where they make serums…You must have heard of them…Dr Rivière’s Serums…”
“That lighted window?”
“Wait a minute…Today’s the 30th…So Monsieur Couchet was there…He generally stays behind by himself when the office is closed…I saw him through the window, sitting in his armchair…Look…”
A window with frosted panes. A strange shadow, like that of a man slumped forward on his desk.
“Is that him?”
“Yes…About eight o’clock, when I went to empty my dustbin, I happened to glance up…He was writing…you could see his hand holding a pen or a pencil…”
“What time did the crime…”
“Just a moment. I went upstairs to get news of Madame de Saint-Marc…I looked up again when I was coming downstairs…He was just like he is now, and I even thought he must have fallen asleep – ”
Maigret was beginning to grow impatient.
“ – then a quarter of an hour later…”
“Yes, yes. He was still in the same place. Get to the point…”
“That’s all…I wanted to find out…I knocked at the door of his office…There was no answer so I went in…He’s dead. There’s blood all over the place…”
“Why didn’t you inform the police station? It’s close by, in the rue de Béarn…”
“And they’d all have come along in uniform and disturbed the whole house. I told you Madame de Saint-Marc…”
Maigret had both hands in his pockets and his pipe between his teeth. He looked up at the first-floor windows and got the impression that the event was imminent, for the bustle was increasing. A door was heard opening, footsteps coming downstairs. A tall, broad silhouette appeared in the courtyard and the concierge, touching the Inspector’s arm, murmured respectfully:
“That’s Monsieur de Saint-Marc…He’s a former ambassador…”
The man, whose face could not be seen clearly, halted, took a few steps and then stopped again, keeping his eyes fixed on his own windows.
“They must have sent him outside…As they did a little while back…Come on…Oh dear, there they go again with their gramophone, just above the Saint-Marcs.”
A smaller window on the second floor, less brightly lit. It was closed, and the music could be guessed at rather than heard.
The concierge, angular, nervous, red-eyed, her fingers fluttering, went to the fat end of the courtyard and pointed to a small flight of steps and a half-open door.
“You’ll see him, on your left…I’d rather not go bac
k there…”
A very ordinary sort of office, with light-coloured furniture and plain wall-paper.
And a man of forty-five, sitting in an armchair, with his head lying on the papers strewn in front of him. He had been shot through the chest.
Maigret listened attentively: the concierge was still outside, waiting for him, and Monsieur de Saint-Marc was still walking up and down in the courtyard. From time to time a bus passed through the square and its clatter intensified the silence that followed.
The Inspector touched nothing. He merely made sure that the weapon had not been left in the office, stood looking about him for three or four minutes, puffing gently at his pipe, then went out, with a stubborn look on his face.
“Well?”
The concierge was still there. She spoke in a whisper.
“Nothing. He’s dead.”
“They’ve just sent for Monsieur de Saint-Marc up there…”
There was much coming and going in the apartment. Doors slammed. Somebody ran.
“She’s so delicate.”
“Oh, sure.” grunted Maigret, scratching the back of his neck. “Only we’re not concerned with that. Have you any idea who could have gone into the office?”
“Me? How could I?”
“Please. You must be able to see the tenants go past from your lodge.”
“I ought to be able to. If the landlord would give me a decent lodge, and wasn’t so stingy about lighting…I’m only just able to hear footsteps and make out shadows at night…There are some footsteps I can recognize…”
“And you’ve noticed nothing unusual since six o’clock?”
“Nothing. Almost all the tenants came down to empty their rubbish…That’s the place, to the left of my lodge – you see those three dustbins? They aren’t supposed to come before seven o’clock in the evening…”
“And nobody came in through the entrance?”
“How d’you expect me to know? You obviously don’t know the building. There are twenty-eight tenants…not to speak of Couchet’s, where they’re coming and going the whole time…”
There were steps in the entrance. A man wearing a bowler hat came into the courtyard, turned left and, going towards the dustbins, picked up an empty one. In spite of the darkness he must have caught sight of Maigret and the concierge, for he stood still a moment, and said at last:
“Nothing for me?”
“Nothing, Monsieur Martin…”
And Maigret inquired:
“Who’s that?”
“An official in the Wills and Probate Office, Monsieur Martin, who lives on the second floor with his wife.”
“How does his dustbin happen to be…”
“They nearly all do that when they have to go out. They bring them down when they leave and collect them when they come in again…Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“I thought…it sounded like a baby’s cry…If only those two up there would stop their wretched gramophone…Of course they’re perfectly well aware that Madame de Saint-Marc’s having a baby…”
She rushed towards the staircase as somebody came down.
“Well, doctor? Is it a boy?”
“A girl.”
And the doctor went out. His car was heard starting up and driving away.
The house went on living its ordinary life. The dark courtyard. The entrance with its feeble lamp. The lighted windows and the dimly heard music of a gramophone.
The dead man was still in his office, all alone, with his head among the scattered letters.
Suddenly a cry rang out from the second floor. A piercing cry, like a desperate call for help. But the concierge did not even give a start, merely sighing as she pushed open the door of her lodge:
“Oh dear, that madwoman again…”
Then she uttered a cry herself, because one of her children had broken a plate. In the light, Maigret saw a thin, tired face, a body of indeterminate age.
“When are all the formalities going to start?” she asked.
The tabac opposite was still open, and a few minutes later Maigret had shut himself up in the telephone booth. He too lowered his voice as he gave his instructions.
“Yes…Get the Parquet…61…It’s almost at the corner of the rue de Turenne…And let them know at the Technical Branch…Hello? Yes, I’ll stay on the spot…”
He took a few steps along the pavement, made his way mechanically through the entrance, and finally took up his post in the middle of the courtyard, sullenly hunching his shoulders because of the cold.
The lights in the windows began to go out. The dead man’s shadow could still be seen silhouetted against the frosted glass.
A taxi stopped. Not the Parquet yet. A young woman hurried across the courtyard, leaving a trail of scent behind her, and pushed open the door of the office.
2
A Real Good Sort
There followed a series of misunderstandings which led to an absurd situation. The young woman, on discovering the corpse, swung round. She caught sight of Maigret’s tall figure framed in the doorway. The association of ideas was automatic: here was a dead man, there stood the murderer.
And with staring eyes and shrinking limbs, she opened her mouth wide to call for help, letting go of her handbag.
Maigret had no time to argue. He seized her by the arm and put his hand over her mouth.
“Hush…You’re making a mistake…Police…”
Failing at first to grasp the meaning of the words, she went on struggling like the highly-strung creature that she was, tried to bite, kicked out backwards.
There was a sound of tearing silk: the shoulder-strap of her dress.
And at last things calmed down. Maigret repeated:
“No noise…I’m a policeman…There’s no need to wake up the house…”
The salient feature of this crime was the unusual silence and calm that prevailed, as the twenty-eight tenants of the house went on living their normal lives with a corpse in their midst.
The young woman was trying to fix her dress.
“Were you his mistress?”
A sullen glare at Maigret, while she hunted for a pin to fasten her strap.
“Had you a date with him tonight?”
“Eight o’clock at the Select…We were to dine together and go on to the theatre…”
“When he failed to turn up at eight o’clock, didn’t you telephone?”
“Yes. I was told the receiver had been left off the hook.”
They both caught sight of it simultaneously, on the desk. The man must have knocked it over as he fell forward.
Footsteps in the courtyard, where the slightest sounds were amplified that night as though under a sounding-board. The concierge called out from the threshold, so as not to see the corpse:
“Inspector, it’s the district police…”
She had no fondness for them. They came along, four or five of them, making no effort to conceal their presence. One of them was finishing a funny story. Another inquired, as he reached the office:
“Where’s the corpse?”
As the District Inspector was away, his clerk had replaced him, and Maigret was the more readily able to keep control of operations.
“Leave your men outside. I’m waiting for the Parquet. It’s better that the tenants should suspect nothing…”
And while the clerk was looking round the office, he turned to the young woman once more.
“What’s your name?”
“Nine…Nine Moinard, but I’m always called Nine…”
“Have you known Couchet a long time?”
“About six months…”
There was no need to ask her many questions. To watch her was enough. A pretty girl, still fairly inexperienced. She was obviously dressed by a good couturier. But her style of make-up, the way she held her bag and gloves and looked aggressively at people, betrayed the music-hall artist.
“A dancer?”
“I was at the Moulin Bleu…”
“And now?”
“I’m with him…”
She had not had time to weep. It had all happened too quickly and as yet she had not a very clear grasp of the true situation.
“Did he live with you?”
“Not really, as he’s married…But still…”
“Your address?”
“Hôtel Pigalle…Rue Pigalle…”
The clerk observed:
“They can’t talk of burglary, in any case.”
“Why?”
“Look. The safe’s behind him. It’s not locked, but the dead man’s back would stop anyone from opening the door.”
Nine, who had pulled a tiny handkerchief from her bag, was sniffling and dabbing her nostrils.
A minute later the atmosphere had changed. Cars braked outside, footsteps and voices rang out in the courtyard. Then there were handshakes, questions, noisy conversations. The Parquet people had come. The police doctor was examining the body and the photographers were setting up their cameras.
For Maigret this was a trying moment to be endured. He said the few things that had to be said, and then went down into the courtyard with his hands in his pockets, lit his pipe, and ran into somebody in the darkness. It was the concierge, who could not resign herself to letting strangers wander about in her house without finding out what they were up to.
“What’s your name?” Maigret asked her in a friendly tone.
“Madame Bourcier…Are those gentlemen going to stay much longer? Look, the light’s gone out in Madame de Saint-Marc’s room…She must have fallen asleep, poor thing…”
As he examined the house, the Inspector noticed another light, a cream-coloured curtain and behind it a woman’s silhouette. She was small and thin, like the concierge. Her voice could not be heard, but it was obvious that she was in a temper. Sometimes she stood stock still, staring at somebody who could not be seen. Then suddenly she would start talking and gesticulating, and would take a few steps forward.
“Who’s that?”
“Madame Martin…You saw her husband coming home just now…You know, the one who took up his dustbin…The official from Wills and Probate…”
“Do they often quarrel?”
“They don’t quarrel…She’s the one who does all the shouting…He daren’t even open his mouth…”
Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987) Page 1
