Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987)

by Georges Simenon

  “Yes, it’s tomorrow. Do you often get these attacks? ”

  “I had them when I was a child…But my sister…”

  “You have a sister?”

  “I had two…Don’t go imagining things…The younger had attacks too…She got married…Her husband was a bad lot and one fine day he took advantage of one of these attacks to have her shut up…She died a week later…”

  “Don’t get upset.” begged Martin. He didn’t know which way to turn or where to look.

  “She’d gone out of her mind?” asked Maigret.

  And the woman’s features hardened again, her voice grew spiteful.

  “That’s to say her husband wanted to get rid of her…Less than six months later, he married someone else…And men are all the same…You sacrifice yourself, you work yourself to death for them…”

  “Please…” her husband sighed.

  “I’m not talking about you. Although you’re no better than all the rest…”

  And Maigret, suddenly, sensed currents of hatred in the air. The moment was brief. It was nothing definite. And yet he was sure that he was not mistaken.

  “All the same, if I’d not been there…” she went on.

  Wasn’t there a threatening note in her voice? The man was fluttering aimlessly. To hide his confusion, he measured out drops of medicine, letting them fall one by one into a glass.

  “The doctor said…”

  “I don’t care what the doctor said.”

  “But you must…Here…Drink it slowly…It’s not bad…”

  She looked at him, then she looked at Maigret, and at last she drank, with a resigned shrug of the shoulders.

  “Did you really come just to inquire after me?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I was on my way to the laboratory when the concierge told me…”

  “Have you found out anything?”

  “Not yet…”

  She closed her eyes to indicate her weariness. Martin looked at Maigret, who got up.

  “Well. I hope you’ll soon be recovered…You’re getting better already…”

  She let him go. Maigret stopped Martin from showing him out.

  “Stay with her, please.”

  Poor fellow. He seemed to be afraid of staying, to be hanging on to the Inspector because, when a third person was there, it was not so bad.

  “You’ll see, she’ll soon be all right…”

  As he was crossing the dining-room he heard a gliding step in the passage. And he caught up with old Mathilde, just as she was about to go into her own room.

  “Good morning, madame…”

  She gave him a frightened look, making no reply, her hand on the door handle.

  Maigret had lowered his voice. He guessed that Madame Martin was listening eagerly, quite capable of getting up to eavesdrop herself.

  “As you probably know, I’m the Inspector in charge of the investigation…”

  He had already guessed that he would get nothing out of this woman, whose face was so placid that it looked like a full moon.

  “What do you want?”

  “Merely to ask you if you’ve anything to tell me…How long have you lived in this house?”

  “Forty years.” she replied curtly.

  “You know everybody…”

  “I don’t talk to anybody.”

  “I thought you might perhaps have seen or heard something…Sometimes a tiny hint is enough to put the law on the right track…”

  Someone was moving about inside the room. But the old woman kept the door stubbornly shut.

  “You’ve not seen anything? ”

  She made no reply.

  “And you’ve not heard anything? ”

  “You’d do better to ask the landlord to fix me up with gas…”

  “Gas?”

  “They’ve got it in the rest of the house…But because he’s not entitled to raise my rent he won’t let me have it…He’d like to throw me out…He does all he can to get rid of me…But he’ll go out before me, and he’ll go out feet first…You can tell him that from me…”

  The door opened so slightly that it seemed impossible that the fat old woman could slip through the crack. Then it closed again, and there were only muffled sounds inside the room.

  “Have you your card?”

  The manservant in his striped waistcoat took the visiting card that Maigret proffered and disappeared into the flat, which was amazingly light, thanks to the fifteen-feet-tall windows that are only to be seen nowadays in houses in the Place des Vosges and the Île Saint-Louis.

  The rooms were immense. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner was purring. A nurse in a white overall, with a pretty blue veil on her head, kept going from one room to another and casting curious glances at the visitor.

  A voice, close by.

  “Ask the Inspector to come in…”

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc was in his study, wearing a dressing-gown, his silvery hair neatly smoothed. First he went to close a door through which Maigret had time to glimpse a fine old bed, with a young woman’s head on the pillow.

  “Sit down, please…Of course, you want to speak to me about that dreadful Couchet affair? ”

  Despite his age he gave an impression of health and vigour. And the atmosphere of the flat was that of a happy home, where everything is bright and cheerful.

  “The tragedy affected me the more especially, as it coincided with a great emotional experience…”

  “I’ve heard about it…”

  There was a slight flicker of pride in the eyes of the former ambassador. He was proud of having a child at his age.

  “I’ll ask you to speak softly, for I’d rather keep the story from Madame de Saint-Marc…In her condition, it would be a pity…But in fact, what do you want to ask me? I scarcely knew the man Couchet…I caught sight of him once or twice as I went through the courtyard…He belonged to one of the clubs I go to occasionally, the Haussmann. But I don’t think he often set foot in it…I merely noticed his name in the latest members’ list…I believe he was rather a common person, wasn’t he? ”

  “Well, his origins were pretty humble…He’d had quite a struggle to get where he did…”

  “My wife told me that he’d married a young woman of very good family, an old schoolfellow of hers…That’s one of the reasons why she’d better not be told about it…Well then, you wanted? ”

  The great windows overlooked the Place des Vosges, brightened by a light burst of sunshine. In the square, gardeners were watering the lawns and flowerbeds. Vans were passing by, drawn by heavy-footed horses.

  “A simple piece of information…I know that, in your quite natural state of anxiety at waiting for things, you paced up and down the courtyard many times…Did you meet anyone? Didn’t you see anyone going towards the offices at the far end of the courtyard? ”

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc pondered, while he fingered a paperknife.

  “Wait a minute…No. I don’t think so…I must admit that I had other things on my mind…The concierge would be better able to…”

  “The concierge knows nothing…”

  “And I myself…No…Or rather…But there can’t be any connexion…”

  “Tell me all the same.”

  “At a certain moment I heard a noise by the dustbins…I was feeling at a loose end…I went over and saw a woman who lives on the second floor…”

  “Madame Martin?”

  “I believe that is her name…I must confess that I’m not well acquainted with my neighbours…She was rummaging in one of the galvanized-iron bins…I remember she said to me: ‘A silver spoon dropped into the rubbish by mistake…’ I asked her: ‘Have you found it?’ And she answered, rather quickly: ‘Yes, yes…’”

  “What did she do next?” asked Maigret.

  “She hurried back to her own flat…She’s a restless little person who’s always bustling about…If I remember about it, it’s because we once lost a valuable ring that way…And the point is that it was brought back to the conci
erge by a ragman who found it while poking about with his hook…”

  “Can you give me any idea when this incident took place?”

  “That’s difficult…Wait a minute…I didn’t feel like eating dinner…But about half past eight Albert, my manservant, begged me to take something…And as I refused to sit down to table, he brought me some anchovy patties in the drawing-room…It was before…”

  “Before half past eight?”

  “Yes…Let’s say that the incident, as you call it, occurred shortly after eight o’clock…But I don’t think it can be of the slightest interest. What is your opinion of the affair? For my own part I refuse to believe, as rumour apparently has it, that the crime was committed by one of the residents in the house…Remember that anybody can get into the courtyard…Actually I am going to ask the landlord to see that the main door is closed at dusk…”

  Maigret had stood up.

  “I have no opinion as yet.” he said.

  The concierge was bringing the mail and, as the hall door had been left open, she suddenly caught sight of the Inspector closeted with Monsieur de Saint-Marc. Worthy Madame Bourcier. She was deeply upset. Her look betrayed worlds of anxiety.

  Was Maigret going to have the impertinence to suspect the Saint-Marcs? Or even to bother them with his questions?

  “Thank you, Monsieur…And please excuse me for paying this call…”

  “Cigar?”

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc was very much the aristocrat, with a slight touch of condescending familiarity which smacked of the politician rather than of the diplomat.

  “I’m entirely at your disposal.”

  The manservant closed the door. Maigret walked slowly down the stairs and found himself back in the courtyard, where the delivery man from some big store was looking in vain for the concierge.

  In the lodge there were just a dog, a cat and the two children, busily smearing themselves with bread and milk.

  “Is your mummy here?”

  “She’s coming back, m’sieu. She’s gone up with the letters…”

  In the less respectable corner of the courtyard, close to the lodge, were four galvanized iron bins where, when night fell, the tenants came one after the other to deposit their household rubbish.

  At six in the morning the concierge opened the street door and the dustmen emptied the bins into their truck.

  At night, this corner was always dark. The only lamp in the courtyard was on the other side, at the foot of the stairs.

  What had Madame Martin come to look for, just about the time when Couchet was killed?

  Had she, too, taken it into her head to hunt for her husband’s glove?

  “No,” grunted Maigret, struck by a sudden recollection. “Martin didn’t bring down the rubbish till much later.”

  What did it all mean, then? They couldn’t have lost a spoon. During the daytime, the tenants were not allowed to deposit anything whatsoever in the empty dustbins.

  What had they been hunting for, one after the other?

  Madame Martin had been rummaging in the dustbin itself.

  And Martin had prowled round it, striking matches.

  And next morning the glove had reappeared.

  “Did you see the baby?” a voice said behind Maigret.

  It was the concierge, speaking of the Saint-Marcs’ child with more emotion than of her own.

  “You said nothing to madame, I hope? She mustn’t be told…”

  “I know. I know.”

  “About the wreath…I mean the tenants’ wreath…I wonder if it ought to be taken to the Couchets’ house today or if it’s the custom to leave it only at the time of the funeral…The staff have been very good too…They’ve collected more than three hundred francs…”

  And, turning to a delivery man:

  “Who’s it for?”

  “Saint-Marc.”

  “Right-hand staircase. First floor opposite…Mind you ring gently.”

  Then, to Maigret:

  “If you knew what a lot of flowers she gets. They really don’t know where to put them all. They’ve had to carry most of them up to the servants’ rooms…Won’t you come in? Jojo, will you please leave your sister alone? ”

  The Inspector was still staring at the dustbins. What the deuce could the Martins have been hunting for?

  “Do you put them out on the pavement in the mornings, according to the regulation?”

  “No. Since I lost my husband, I can’t manage that. Or else I’d have to pay somebody, for they’re far too heavy for me…The dustmen are very obliging…I offer them a drink from time to time and they come in to collect the bins in the yard…”

  “So that the ragmen don’t get a chance to rummage in them.”

  “Don’t you believe that. They come into the courtyard too…There’s three or four of them sometimes, making no end of a mess…”

  “Thank you very much.”

  And Maigret went off, deep in thought, forgetting or not bothering to pay another visit to the office, as he had intended that morning.

  When he reached the Quai des Orfèvres he was told:

  “Somebody’s been asking for you on the phone. A Colonel…”

  But he was still pursuing his train of thought. Opening the door of the detectives’ office he called out:

  “Lucas. Will you set off immediately…You must question all the dustbin-rakers who usually operate in the neighbourhood of the Place des Vosges…If necessary you must go to the Saint-Denis works where the rubbish is burnt…”

  “But…”

  “We’ve got to find out if they noticed anything unusual in the dustbins of number 61 Place des Vosges the day before yesterday morning…”

  He had let himself sink into his armchair and a word suddenly came back to him: Colonel…

  What colonel? He didn’t know any colonels…

  Yes, he did, though. There was one involved in the case. Madame Couchet’s uncle. What did he want?

  “Hello…Elysée 17-62…Inspector Maigret speaking, Police Headquarters…What did you say? Colonel Dormoy wants to speak to me? Yes, I’m waiting…Hello. Is that Colonel Dormoy? What? A will? I can’t hear very well…No, on the contrary, speak a little softer…Not quite so close to the mouthpiece…That’s better…Well then? You’ve found an extraordinary will? And not even sealed? Right. I’ll be around in half an hour…No, I shan’t bother to take a taxi…”

  And he lit his pipe, pushing back his armchair and crossing one leg over the other.

  7

  The Three Women

  “The Colonel’s expecting you, in Monsieur Couchet’s room. If you’ll kindly follow me…”

  The room where the body was lying was now shut. In the neighbouring room, which must have been Madame Couchet’s, someone was moving about. The maid opened a door and Maigret saw the Colonel standing beside the table, with his hand resting lightly on it, his chin in the air, as calm and dignified as if he were posing for a sculptor.

  “Please sit down.”

  Maigret, however, was not taken in; he remained standing and merely unfastened his heavy overcoat, put his bowler hat on a chair and filled his pipe.

  “Was it you who found this will?” he asked, looking round the room with interest.

  “I found it, this very morning. My niece does not know about it yet. I must say that it’s so outrageous…”

  A funny kind of room, just like Couchet himself. Certainly the furniture was antique, as in the rest of the apartment. There were a few objects of value. But side by side with them were things that revealed the man’s simple tastes.

  In front of the window, a table had done service as a desk. There were Turkish cigarettes, but also a whole row of those cherry-wood pipes that cost next to nothing, and which Couchet must have cherished as they matured.

  A crimson dressing-gown, the most dazzling he could find. And then, at the foot of the bed, a pair of old slippers with worn-out soles.

  There was a drawer in the table.

  “Y
ou’ll notice that it was not locked,” the Colonel said. “I don’t even know if the key exists. This morning my niece needed some money to pay a tradesman and I wanted to save her the bother of writing a cheque. I had a look in this room. This is what I found…”

  An envelope, headed: Grand Hotel. Writing paper to match, of a bluish shade.

  Then some lines which seemed to have been scribbled down casually, like a rough draft:

  This is my last will and testament…Followed this unexpected sentence:

  Since I shall probably forget to inquire about the laws of inheritance, I request my solicitor, Maître Dampierre, to see that my fortune is divided as equally as possible between the following:

  my wife Germaine, née Dormoy,

  my former wife, now Madame Martin, of 61 Place des Vosges,

  Nine Moinard, of Hôtel Pigalle, rue Pigalle.

  “What do you think of that?”

  Maigret was delighted. This will was the finishing touch that endeared Couchet to him.

  “Of course,” the Colonel went on, “this will won’t hold water. There are any number of points that make it invalid, and as soon as the funeral is over we shall contest it. But I thought it important and urgent to tell you about it, because…”

  Maigret was still smiling, as if he had been witnessing an amusing practical joke. Even that Grand Hotel writing paper. Like many businessmen who have no office in the city centre, Couchet must have kept some of his appointments there. So, while waiting for somebody, no doubt, in the hall or in the smoking-room, he had picked up a writing pad and scribbled these few lines.

  He hadn’t closed the envelope. He had flung the whole thing into his drawer, postponing to another time the task of drawing up a formal will.

  This had happened a fortnight ago.

  “You must have been struck by one really shocking feature,” the Colonel was saying. “Couchet quite forgets to mention his son. That detail alone is enough to invalidate the will and…”

  “Do you know Roger?”

  “Do I? No…”

  And Maigret kept on smiling.

  “I was just saying that if I asked you to come here it was because…”