Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987)

by Georges Simenon

  Maigret did not lift the coverlet, did not even show himself to Céline.

  A few moments later, the body was being carried to the ambulance, which then drove off towards the Institute of Forensic Medicine.

  Then, little by little, the crowd in the rue Pigalle broke up. Inquisitive latecomers did not even know whether there had been a fire, a suicide or the arrest of a pickpocket.

  “He was whistling…And suddenly she heard nothing more…”

  Maigret went slowly, very slowly up the staircase in the Place des Vosges, and the nearer he drew to the second floor the glummer he became.

  Old Mathilde’s door was ajar. No doubt the woman was standing behind it, keeping watch. But he shrugged his shoulders and pulled the cord that hung in front of the Martins’ door.

  His pipe was in his mouth. For a moment he considered putting it in his pocket, then, once again, shrugged his shoulders.

  There was a clink of bottles. A confused murmur. Two men’s voices drawing nearer, and at last the door opening.

  “All right, doctor…Yes, doctor…Thank you, doctor…”

  A dejected Monsieur Martin, who had not yet had time to tidy himself up and faced Maigret in the same bedraggled state as that morning.

  “It’s you? ”

  The doctor made his way towards the staircase, while Monsieur Martin showed the Inspector in, casting a furtive glance into the bedroom.

  “Is she worse?”

  “We don’t know…The doctor doesn’t want to commit himself…He’s coming back tonight…”

  He picked up a prescription from the radio, and stared at it blankly.

  “I haven’t even got anyone to send to the chemist’s.”

  “What happened?”

  “Much the same as last night, only worse…She began to shake, and to mutter incomprehensible things…I sent for the doctor and he says she’s got a very high temperature…”

  “Is she delirious?”

  “I tell you, one can’t understand what she’s saying. We ought to have some ice, and a rubber thing for putting it on her forehead…”

  “Would you like me to stay here while you go to the chemist’s?”

  Monsieur Martin was on the point of refusing. Then he gave in.

  He put on an overcoat and went out gesticulating, a grotesque and tragic figure, then came back because he had forgotten to take any money.

  Maigret had no ulterior motive in staying in the flat. He showed no interest in anything, did not open a single drawer, did not even glance at a pile of letters lying on a table.

  He heard the irregular breathing of the sick woman who, from time to time, heaved a deep sigh, then babbled some mixed-up syllables.

  When Monsieur Martin returned he found Maigret in the same place.

  “Have you got all you need?”

  “Yes…It’s terrible…And I haven’t even told them at the office…”

  Maigret helped him to break up the ice and put it into the red rubber bag.

  “You didn’t have any visitors this morning, did you?”

  “Nobody…”

  “And you got no letters?”

  “Nothing…Some circulars…”

  Madame Martin’s forehead was bathed in sweat and her greying hair clung to her temples. Her lips were discoloured. But her eyes remained amazingly alive.

  Did they recognize Maigret, who was holding the bag over the patient’s head?

  One couldn’t tell. But she seemed a little calmer. With the red ice-bag on her forehead, she lay still, staring at the ceiling.

  The Inspector drew Monsieur Martin back into the dining-room.

  “I’ve got several pieces of news for you.”

  “Oh?” he said with a shudder of anxiety.

  “Couchet’s will has been found. He has left one third of his fortune to your wife.”

  “What?”

  And Martin became flustered, as though bewildered and disconcerted by the news.

  “You say he’s left us…?”

  “One third of his fortune. I don’t expect it’ll be plain sailing. His second wife is bound to contest it…For she only gets a third herself…The remaining third goes to somebody else, Couchet’s last mistress, a girl called Nine…”

  Why did Martin seem so distressed? Worse than distressed. Appalled. He seemed completely paralysed by the news. He was staring at the floor, unable to get a grip on himself.

  “The other piece of news is not so good…It’s about your stepson…”

  “Roger?”

  “He killed himself this morning by jumping out of the window of his room in the rue Pigalle…”

  Then he saw little Martin bristle up and glare at him furiously, shouting:

  “What are you talking about? You want to drive me mad, don’t you? Confess that it’s all a trick to get me to speak…”

  “Not so loud…Your wife…”

  “I don’t care…You’re lying…It isn’t possible…”

  He was unrecognizable. He had suddenly lost all his timidity, all the good breeding on which he set so much store.

  And it was strange to see his distorted face, his trembling lips, his hands fluttering about in the air.

  “I give you my word,” Maigret insisted, “that both these pieces of news are official…”

  “But why should he have done that? It’s enough to drive one mad, I tell you…Besides, that’s what’s actually happening…My wife’s going mad…You’ve seen her…And if this goes on I shall go mad too…We shall all go mad…”

  His eyes were feverishly restless. He had lost all self-control.

  “Her son’s jumped out of the window…And the will…”

  All his features were contracted and suddenly there was an outburst of weeping, tragic, comic, horrible.

  “Please try and keep calm.”

  “My whole life…Thirty-two years…Every day…At nine o’clock…Never incurred a reproof…And all that for…”

  “Please…Remember that your wife can hear you, and that she’s very ill…”

  “And what about me? D’you think I’m not ill too? D’you think that I can put up with this sort of life much longer? ”

  He hardly looked the weeping sort, and that was just what made his tears so pathetic.

  “It’s no fault of yours, is it? He was only your stepson…You’re not responsible…”

  Martin looked at the Inspector, suddenly quietened, but not for long.

  “I’m not responsible…”

  He flared up again.

  “All the same I’m the one who has all the worry. You come here and tell these stories…On the staircase the other tenants give me dirty looks…I bet they suspect me of having killed that Couchet…That’s it…And besides, how am I to know that you don’t suspect me too? What are you doing here? Aha. You don’t answer…You wouldn’t dare answer…It’s always the weakest who’s picked on…A man who can’t defend himself…And my wife’s ill…And…”

  Waving his arms about, he struck the radio set with his elbow, and it toppled over and crashed to the floor with a loud noise of smashed valves.

  Then the petty official reappeared.

  “A set that cost me twelve hundred francs…I had to wait three years before I could afford it…”

  A moan came from the neighbouring room. He listened attentively, but did not move.

  It was Maigret who glanced into the room. Madame Martin was still prostrate. The Inspector met her gaze, and he could not have said whether it reflected keen intelligence or feverish unease.

  She made no attempt to speak. She let him go away.

  In the dining-room, Martin had propped both elbows on a sideboard, and was holding his head in his hands, staring at the tapestry that hung a few inches from his face.

  “Why should he have killed himself?”

  “Suppose for instance that it was he who…”

  Silence. A crackling sound. A strong smell of burning. Martin had noticed nothing.

  “Is ther
e something on the stove?” inquired Maigret.

  He went into the kitchen, which was blue with smoke. On the gas stove he found a saucepan of milk which had boiled over and seemed in danger of disintegrating. He turned off the gas, opened the window, catching sight of the courtyard, the Serum laboratory, and the director’s car parked at the foot of the steps. He could hear the tapping of typewriters in the offices.

  If Maigret lingered, there was a reason. He wanted to give Martin time to quieten down, to get hold of himself. He slowly filled his pipe and lit it with a lighter hanging above the stove.

  When he returned to the dining-room the man had not moved, but he had grown calmer. He stood up with a sigh, hunted for a handkerchief and blew his noise noisily.

  “All this is going to end badly, isn’t it?” he began.

  “There have been two deaths already.” Maigret replied.

  “Two deaths…”

  An effort. An effort which must have been agonizing, for Martin, who had been on the verge of a new outburst, managed to control his nerves.

  “In that case, I think it would be better…”

  “It would be better? ”

  The Inspector hardly dared speak. He held his breath. His heart was beating faster, for he felt he was quite close to the truth.

  “Yes…” Martin mumbled to himself. “Can’t be helped…It’s essential…es…sen…tial…”

  Nevertheless, he walked mechanically as far as the open door of the bedroom and looked in.

  Maigret was still waiting, motionless and silent.

  Martin said nothing. His wife’s voice was not heard. Even so something must have taken place.

  The situation seemed as though it would go on for ever. The Inspector began to grow impatient.

  “Well? ”

  The man turned slowly towards him, with a new expression.

  “What?”

  “You were saying that…”

  Monsieur Martin attempted to smile.

  “That what?”

  “That it would be better, in order to avoid further tragedies…”

  “That what would be better?”

  He passed his hand across his forehead like someone who finds it hard to revive his memories.

  “I beg your pardon. I’m so upset…”

  “That you’ve forgotten what you were going to say?”

  “Yes…I don’t know…Look…She’s asleep…”

  He pointed to Madame Martin, who had closed her eyes; her face had turned crimson, doubtless as a result of the pack of ice applied to her forehead.

  “What do you know?” asked Maigret, in the tone he would use to an over-cunning suspect.

  “Me?”

  And henceforward all his answers were going to be like that. Acting half-witted. Repeating a word in astonishment.

  “You were just about to tell me the truth…”

  “The truth?”

  “Come now. Don’t try and make yourself out an idiot. You know who killed Couchet…”

  “Me? I know? ”

  If he had never had a slap in the face, he narrowly escaped getting a tremendous one then from Maigret.

  The latter, his lips tight, was looking at the woman who lay there motionless, asleep or pretending to sleep, and then at the little man with his eyelids still swollen, his features haggard from his recent upset, and his moustache drooping.

  “You’ll take sole responsibility for whatever happens?”

  “What’s likely to happen?”

  “You’re making a mistake, Martin.”

  “What sort of mistake?”

  What had happened? During the space of one minute, perhaps, the man who had been about to talk had stood between the two rooms, with his eyes fixed on his wife’s bed. Maigret had heard nothing. Martin had not moved.

  Now she had gone to sleep. He was pretending to be innocent.

  “Please excuse me…I think at times I’m not in my right mind…You must admit it’s enough to drive one crazy…”

  All the same he still seemed depressed and even gloomy. He looked like a condemned man. His eyes avoided Maigret’s, hovered over familiar objects, finally fastened on the radio set, which he proceeded to pick up, crouching on the floor with his back to the Inspector.

  “What time is the doctor coming?”

  “I don’t know…He said tonight…”

  Maigret went out, slamming the door behind him. He found himself face to face with old Mathilde, who was so taken aback that she stood motionless and open-mouthed.

  “You’ve got nothing to tell me either, have you, eh? I suppose you’re going to claim that you know nothing either? ”

  She tried to recover her self-possession. She kept both hands under her apron, automatically assuming the attitude of an old housewife.

  “Let’s go into your place…”

  She dragged her felt slippers across the floor, then paused, reluctant to push her half-open door.

  “Come on. In you go…”

  And Maigret went in after her, kicked the door to, and never even cast a glance at the crazy woman who was sitting by the window.

  “Now then, speak up…Understand? ”

  And he subsided heavily on to a chair.

  9

  The Man with a Pension

  “For one thing, they spend their lives quarrelling.”

  Maigret did not bat an eyelid. He was up to the neck in this everyday squalor which was more sickening than the drama itself.

  The old woman facing him wore an appallingly jubilant and menacing expression. She was talking. She was going on talking. Out of hatred for the Martins, for the dead man, for all the tenants in the house, out of hatred for the whole of mankind. And out of hatred for Maigret.

  She stood there with her hands clasped over her great flabby stomach. She seemed to have been waiting all her life for this moment.

  It was not merely a smile that drifted across her lips. It was actual bliss, melting her whole being.

  “For one thing, they spend their whole lives quarrelling.”

  She was in no hurry. She was measuring out her phrases. She was taking her time to express her contempt for people who quarrel.

  “Worse than guttersnipes. And it’s been going on for ever. So that I wonder he’s not put an end to her before now.”

  “Oh, so you were expecting? ”

  “When you live in a house like this one, you can expect anything…”

  She was guarding the inflexions of her voice. Was she more odious than absurd, or more absurd than odious?

  The room was large. There was an unmade bed, with grey sheets that must never have hung out to dry in the open air. A table, an old cupboard, a stove.

  In an armchair, the madwoman, who was staring straight ahead with a faint fond smile.

  “Tell me, do you sometimes have visitors?” asked Maigret.

  “Never.”

  “And your sister never leaves this room?”

  “Sometimes she escapes to the stairs…”

  A discouraging greyness. A smell of squalid poverty, of old age, possibly a smell of death?

  “Notice that it’s always the wife who does the attacking.”

  Maigret scarcely felt strong enough to question her. He looked at her vaguely. He was listening.

  “About money matters, of course. Never anything to do with women…Although once when she was doing the accounts and she thought that he’d been to a certain sort of house, she let him have it…”

  “Does she beat him?”

  Maigret’s question was not ironical. The suggestion was no more absurd than any other. The whole situation was so unreal that nothing could seem surprising any longer.

  “I don’t know if she beats him, but in any case she smashes crockery…Then she begins to cry, and says he’ll never have a decent home…”

  “In a word, there are scenes practically every day?”

  “Not big scenes. But nagging. Two or three big scenes a week…”

 
“It keeps you busy?”

  She was not sure of having caught his meaning and looked at him with a shade of anxiety.

  “What does she usually nag him about?”

  “‘A man ought not to get married if he can’t provide for his wife.’”

  “‘A man ought not to deceive a woman by leading her to believe he’s going to get promotion when it isn’t true…’”

  “‘Taking a woman away from a man like Couchet, who’s capable of making millions…’”

  “‘You officials are poor-spirited creatures…A man has got to work on his own, to enjoy taking risks, to have some initiative, if he wants to get anywhere…’”

  Poor Martin, with his gloves, his buff overcoat, his waxed moustache. Maigret could imagine all the phrases that would come drizzling or pouring down on his head.

  He’d done what he could, though. Before him, Couchet had incurred the same reproaches. And Couchet must have been told:

  “Just look at Monsieur Martin. There’s an intelligent man for you. And he thinks he may get married one of these days. And his wife will have a pension if anything should happen to him. Whereas you…”

  It all looked like a sinister caricature. Madame Martin had been mistaken, she’d been taken in, she’d taken in everybody else.

  There was an appalling mistake at the bottom of it.

  The confectioner’s daughter from Meaux wanted money. That was an established fact. Money was a necessity. She knew it. She was born to have money and therefore it was her husband’s duty to make money.

  Suppose Couchet did not make enough? And she wouldn’t even get a pension if he died?

  Then she would marry Martin. That was that.

  Only Couchet was the one who became a millionaire, when it was too late. And there was no hope of spurring on Martin, no way of inducing him to leave the Wills and Probate Office and start selling serums, or something equally profitable.

  She was unfortunate. She had always been unfortunate. Life seemed to delight in disappointing her hideously.

  Old Mathilde’s eyes, grey-green as jellyfish, were fixed on Maigret.

  “Did her son come to see her?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did she make scenes with him too?”

  You would have thought the old woman had been waiting for this moment for years. She was taking her time. She was in no hurry.