Maigret paid a ten minute call on the examining magistrate to pass on the results so far obtained. Then, as it was a little after noon, he went home, hunching his back, always a sign of ill humour.
“Are you in charge of this Place des Vosges case?” inquired his wife, who had read the newspaper.
“I am.”
And Maigret sat down and looked at his wife in an odd way, in which increased tenderness was mingled with a hint of anxiety.
He could still visualize the thin face, the black garments, the anguished eyes of Madame Martin.
And those tears that had suddenly gushed forth, disappeared as though dried up by some inner fire, and broken out again a little later.
Madame Couchet with her furs, Madame Martin with none…Couchet, supplying provisions for the cyclists in the Tour de France, and his first wife wearing the same hat three years running…
And their son…And the flask of ether on the bedside table in the Hôtel Pigalle…
And Céline, who only took up street-walking when she was temporarily without a steady boyfriend…
And Nine…
“You don’t look happy…You look ill…Perhaps you’re sickening for a cold.”
It was quite true. Maigret felt a tickling in his nostrils and a sort of emptiness in his head.
“Whatever’s that umbrella you’ve brought back? It’s hideous…”
Madame Martin’s umbrella. The Martin couple, buff overcoat and black silk dress, parading down the Champs-Elysées on a Sunday…
“It’s nothing…I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
It was one of those impressions one cannot explain: there seemed to be something abnormal about the house, something that was recognizable even from the outside.
The excited bustle in the shop that sold beaded funeral wreaths? Evidently the tenants must have clubbed together to send a wreath.
The anxious glances cast by the ladies’ hairdresser whose shop stood open on the other side of the entrance?
In any case, there was an unhealthy atmosphere about the house that day. And as it was four o’clock and darkness was beginning to fall, the absurd little lamp was already glowing under the archway.
Over the way, the keeper of the square garden was closing the gates. On the first floor, the Saint-Marcs’ manservant was drawing the curtains, slowly and conscientiously.
When Maigret knocked at the door of the lodge, he found Madame Bourcier, the concierge, relating the whole story to an errand-boy from Dufayel’s who carried a little inkpot slung across his blue uniform.
“A house where nothing’s ever happened…Hush, here’s the Inspector…”
She bore a vague resemblance to Madame Martin, in that both women seemed of indefinite age and indeed sexless. And both had been unhappy, or had thought themselves unhappy.
But the concierge also wore a look of resignation, a resignation to her lot that was almost like an animal’s.
“Jojo…Lili…Don’t get in the way…Good afternoon, Inspector…I’d expected you this morning…What a business…I hope I did right in sending round a subscription list for a wreath to all the tenants…Is it known when the funeral’s to be? By the way…Madame de Saint-Marc…You know…I must ask you not to say anything to her about it…Monsieur de Saint-Marc came this morning…He’s afraid of upsetting her, in her present condition…”
In the blue haze of the courtyard, the two lamps, the one in the entrance and the one fastened to the wall, cast long shafts of yellowish light.
“Madame Martin’s flat?” inquired Maigret.
“Second floor, third door on your left after you’ve turned the corner.”
The Inspector recognized the window, where the light was on but where no shadow could be seen against the curtain.
The rattle of typewriters could be heard from down by the laboratories. A delivery man appeared:
“Dr Rivière’s Serums?”
“At the far end of the courtyard, on your right. Will you leave your sister alone, Jojo.”
Maigret made his way up the staircase, with Madame Martin’s umbrella under his arm. As far as the first floor, the house had been redecorated, the walls were freshly painted and the staircase varnished.
On reaching the second floor one was in a different world, with dirty walls and worn floorboards. The doors of the apartments were painted an ugly brown, and fastened on these doors were either visiting cards or small plaques of embossed aluminium.
A cheap visiting card read: Monsieur and Madame Edgar Martin. To the right hung a tricolour twisted cord ending in a limp tassel. When Maigret pulled it, a shrill bell rang in the empty-sounding apartment. Then there were rapid steps. A voice asked:
“Who is there?”
“I’ve brought back your umbrella.”
The door opened. The hall consisted of a space a yard square where the buff overcoat hung on a coat-stand. Opposite, an open door revealed a room that was part dining-room, part drawing-room, with a radio set on a sideboard.
“I apologize for bothering you. This morning you forgot this umbrella in my office…”
“You see. And I thought I’d left it on the bus. As I said to Martin…”
Maigret did not smile. He was used to the sort of women who insist on calling their husbands by their surnames.
Martin was there, wearing a smoking jacket of heavy chocolate-brown cloth over his striped trousers.
“Please come in…”
“I don’t want to disturb you…”
“People who have nothing to hide never mind being disturbed.”
The essential characteristic of any dwelling is probably its smell. Here, it was a faint pervasive aroma of polish, cooking, and old clothes.
A canary was hopping about in a cage and occasionally spilling a drop of water.
“Give the Inspector the armchair.”
The armchair. There was just the one, a tall chair upholstered in such dark leather that it looked almost black.
And Madame Martin, very different to what she had been that morning, was simpering:
“You’ll surely take something…I insist…Martin. Bring an apéritif…”
Martin looked worried. Perhaps there was none in the house? Perhaps only a drop at the bottom of the bottle?
“No, thank you, madame. I never drink before meals.”
“But you’ve plenty of time…”
It was depressing. Depressing enough to make one discouraged with being a man, with living in a world where, after all, the sun shines several hours a day and real birds fly about freely.
These people couldn’t have been fond of light, for the three electric lamps were carefully veiled by thick coloured shades which let only the bare minimum of light filter through.
“And above all, polish.” thought Maigret.
For that was what predominated in the smell. Moreover, the massive oak table gleamed like a skating rink.
Monsieur Martin had assumed the formal smile of a host.
“You must have a marvellous view over the Place des Vosges, which is something unique in Paris.” said Maigret, knowing perfectly well that the windows overlooked the courtyard.
“No. The rooms at the front on the second floor have got very low ceilings because of the style of the building…You know the whole square is scheduled as a historic monument…Nobody’s entitled to make any alterations…And it’s deplorable…For years now we’ve wanted to put in a bathroom and…”
Maigret had gone up to the window. With a careless gesture he drew aside the blind on which he had seen the silhouette. And he stood there quite still, so excited that he forgot to make polite conversation.
Facing him were the offices and laboratory of Couchet’s firm.
From below, he had noticed that the windows were of frosted glass.
From up here, he discovered that these were only the lower windows. The others were clear and transparent, washed two or three times a week by charwomen.
And in the very place
where Couchet had been killed, he could distinctly see Monsieur Philippe signing the typed letters that his secretary passed him one by one. He could make out the lock of the safe.
And the communicating door into the laboratory was ajar. Through the windows of the latter a row of women in white overalls could be seen at a long table, busily packing up glass tubes.
Each had her job. The first picked the unwrapped tubes out of a basket and the ninth handed over to an assistant perfect parcels, neatly wrapped and labelled, all ready to be delivered to the chemists’ shops.
“Aren’t you going to bring some drinks?” Madame Martin’s voice sounded behind Maigret. And her husband bustled about, opened a cupboard, clattered glasses.
“Just a tiny drop of vermouth, Inspector…Madame Couchet, of course, could undoubtedly offer you cocktails…”
And Madame Martin’s smile was as venomous as if her lips had been poisoned arrows.
5
The Madwoman
Glass in hand, Maigret remarked, with his eye on Madame Martin:
“Well, if only you’d been looking through the window last night. My investigation would have been over by now. For you can’t help seeing everything that goes on in Couchet’s office from here.”
There was nothing meaningful about his voice or attitude. He was merely making small talk as he sipped his vermouth.
“I might even say that this case would have been of quite exceptional interest, from the point of view of evidence. Somebody actually witnessing the murder from a distance. Indeed, with field-glasses, one could see people’s lips so clearly that one could piece together their conversation…”
Madame Martin was at a loss, keeping on her guard, with her pale lips set in a noncommittal smile.
“But what an emotional experience for you. To be sitting quietly at your window, and suddenly to see somebody threatening your former husband. Worse still, for the scene must have been more complex. I imagine Couchet all alone, deep in his accounts…He gets up and goes towards the toilet. When he comes back somebody has been rifling the safe, and hasn’t had time to escape…Nevertheless, there’s one curious detail, in this case: that Couchet should have sat down again…Of course, he may have known the thief? He speaks to him…He reproaches him, asks him to give back the money…”
“Only I’d have had to be at the window.” commented Madame Martin.
“Perhaps other windows on the same floor have the same view? Who lives on your right?”
“Two girls and their mother…The ones who play the gramophone every night…”
At that moment a cry rang out, a cry that Maigret had heard before. He stood silent for a moment, and then said softly:
“It’s the madwoman, isn’t it?”
“Hush…” said Madame Martin, moving noiselessly towards the door.
She opened it suddenly. In the dimly lit passage a woman’s figure could be seen, hastily retreating.
“The old witch…” muttered Madame Martin loud enough to be heard by the other woman.
Retracing her steps in a rage, she explained to the Inspector:
“That was old Mathilde. She used to be a cook. Have you seen her? She looks like a great toad. She lives in the next room with her sister, who’s crazy. And the one’s as old and ugly as the other. The madwoman hasn’t left her room once ever since we’ve been in this flat.”
“Why does she scream like that?”
“That’s just it. It happens when she’s left alone in the darkness. She’s frightened, like a child. She screams…I’ve found out old Mathilde’s game at last…From morning till night she prowls about the passages…You’re always sure to find her behind a door, and when she’s caught she hardly turns a hair…She just moves off, calm as can be, the ugly thing…It’s got to the point that you don’t feel at home in your own place, you have to lower your voice to discuss family matters…I’ve just caught her in the act, haven’t I? Well. I’m willing to bet she’s already come back…”
“That can’t be very pleasant,” Maigret agreed. “But doesn’t the landlord do anything about it?”
“He’s tried hard to get rid of them…Unfortunately there are laws…Besides, it can’t be either healthy or pleasant, those two old women in a tiny room…I’m sure they never wash…”
The Inspector had seized his hat.
“Please forgive me for having disturbed you. It’s time I was going…”
Now he had a clear mental picture of their apartment, from the antimacassars on the furniture to the calendars hanging on the walls.
“Don’t make a sound…You’ll catch the old woman at it…”
In fact this was not quite the case. She was not in the passage, but behind her half-open door, like a huge spider lying in wait. She must have been taken aback when the Inspector greeted her pleasantly as he went past.
Apéritif time found Maigret sitting in the Select, not far from the American bar where the talk was exclusively about racing. When the waiter came up he showed him the photograph of Roger Couchet which he had taken away from the Hôtel Pigalle that morning.
“D’you know this young man?”
The waiter looked surprised.
“That’s odd…”
“What’s odd?”
“He left here less than a quarter of an hour ago…Why, he was at this very table. I shouldn’t have noticed him but for the fact that, instead of telling me what he wanted to drink he remarked: ‘The same as yesterday.’ Well, I had no recollection of having seen him…So I said: ‘ Will you remind me what that was?’ ‘Why, a gin fizz.’ And that was what I found so funny. Because I’m sure I never served a single gin fizz yesterday evening. He stayed a few minutes, then he went off…It’s odd that you should just come and show me his photograph.”
It was not in the least odd. Roger had wanted to make it clear that he had been to the Select the night before, as he had told Maigret. He had used quite a clever trick, and had only made the mistake of choosing a somewhat unusual drink.
A few minutes later Nine came in, looking mournful, and sat down at the table nearest the bar, then, catching sight of the Inspector, she got up, and after a moment’s hesitation came over towards him.
“Did you want to speak to me?” she inquired.
“Not specially. Yes, I do, though. I want to ask you a question. You come here most evenings, don’t you?”
“This was where Raymond and I always met.”
“Do you always sit in the same place?”
“Over there, where I sat when I came in…”
“Were you there yesterday?”
“Yes, why?”
“And you don’t remember seeing the original of this portrait?”
She looked at the photograph of Roger, and murmured:
“But it’s the boy from the next room.”
“Yes. It’s Couchet’s son…”
She stared at him, disturbed by this coincidence and wondering what it might conceal.
“He came to see me soon after you’d left this morning…I’d just got back from the Moulin Bleu…”
“What did he want?”
“He asked me if I’d got an aspirin tablet for Céline, who wasn’t well…”
“And what about the theatre? Have they signed you on?”
“I’m to go round there tonight…One of the girls has hurt herself…If she’s not better I shall take her place, and perhaps they’ll take me on permanently…”
She lowered her voice to add:
“I’ve got the hundred francs…Give me your hand…”
And her gesture was deeply revealing, psychologically. She did not want to offer Maigret the hundred francs in public. She was afraid of embarrassing him. So she held the note, folded very small, in the palm of her hand. She slipped it to him as if to a gigolo.
“Thank you very much. You’ve been kind…”
She was evidently depressed. She was looking round her without taking the slightest interest in the sight of people coming and
going. With the ghost of a smile, however, she remarked:
“The head waiter is looking at us…He’s wondering why I’m with you…He must think I’ve already found a successor to Raymond…You’re going to be compromised.”
“Will you have a drink?”
“No thanks.” she said tactfully. “If you should happen to want me…At the Moulin Bleu I’m called Elyane…You know the stage door in the rue Fontaine?”
It was not too much of an ordeal. Maigret rang the doorbell of the flat in the Boulevard Haussmann a little before dinner time. The heavy scent of chrysanthemums greeted him in the entrance hall. The maid who opened the door walked on tiptoe.
She thought the Inspector merely wanted to leave his card, and she led him without a word to the mortuary chamber, all hung with black. By the entrance stood a silver tray full of visiting cards.
The body was already in the coffin, which was piled high with flowers.
In one corner was a tall, elegant young man dressed in mourning, who greeted Maigret with a slight nod.
Opposite him a woman of about fifty was kneeling, coarse-featured, dressed like a peasant in her Sunday best.
The Inspector went up to the young man.
“Might I see Madame Couchet?”
“I’ll ask my sister if she can see you…Your name is? ”
“Maigret. The Inspector in charge of the investigation…”
The country-woman stayed where she was. A few minutes later the young man returned and piloted his guest through the apartment.
Apart from the scent of flowers that prevailed everywhere, there was nothing unusual about the appearance of the rooms. It was a handsome late-nineteenth-century apartment, like most of those along the Boulevard Haussmann. Spacious rooms. Ceilings and doors somewhat over-ornate.
And period furniture. In the drawing-room, a monumental glass chandelier tinkled whenever one walked.
Mme Couchet was there, with three people whom she introduced. First of all the young man in mourning:
“My brother, Henry Dormoy, barrister-at-law…”
Then an elderly gentleman:
“Colonel Dormoy, my uncle…”
Finally a lady with fine silvery hair:
Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987) Page 5
