Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987)

by Georges Simenon

  The compartment was very hot. Steam was trickling down the panes. Tobacco smoke was wreathing round the lamp.

  “I should have confessed it all the first time I saw you…I hadn’t the courage…I was hoping that…”

  Martin fell silent, and stared in surprise at his companion, whose mouth had fallen open and whose eyes were closed. His breathing was as regular as the purring of a big, satisfied cat.

  Maigret was asleep.

  The other man cast a glance towards the door, which only needed pushing. And as if to avoid the temptation, he huddled in a corner, his thighs pressed tightly together, his two frantic hands on his bony knees.

  The Gare du Nord. A grey morning. And the crowd of suburban travellers, still only half awake, trooping out through the gates.

  The train had stopped a long way from the main hall. The cases were heavy. Martin was unwilling to stop. He was breathless and both his arms were aching.

  They had to wait a longish time for a taxi.

  “Are you taking me to jail?”

  They had spent five hours in the train and Maigret had not spoken more than a dozen sentences. And even those were sentences that had nothing to do with the crime, nor with the three hundred and sixty thousand francs. He had talked about his pipe, or the heat, or the time the train was due in.

  “61 Place des Vosges.” he said to the taxi driver.

  Martin begged him:

  “Do you think it’s necessary to…”

  And to himself:

  “What must they be thinking at the office? I hadn’t time to let them know…”

  In her lodge, the concierge was sorting the mail: a great pile of letters for the Serum laboratory, a tiny pile for the rest of the house.

  “Monsieur Martin. Monsieur Martin…They called round from the Wills and Probate to find out if you were ill…It seems you’ve got the key of…”

  Maigret hurried his companion forward. And the latter had to drag his heavy cases up the stairs, where milk bottles and loaves of bread were standing in front of the doors.

  Old Mathilde’s door was seen to move.

  “Give me the key.”

  “But…”

  “Open it yourself.”

  A deep silence. The click of the lock. Then the orderly dining-room was seen, with everything in its proper place.

  Martin hesitated for a long time before saying, in a loud voice:

  “It’s me…And the Inspector…”

  Somebody stirred in bed in the next room. As he closed the door behind him, Martin moaned:

  “We shouldn’t have…She’s not involved in this, is she? And in her condition…”

  He dared not go in to the bedroom. To keep himself in countenance he picked up his suitcases and laid them on two chairs.

  “Shall I make some coffee?”

  Maigret was knocking at the bedroom door.

  “May I come in?”

  No answer. He pushed open the door, and Madame Martin’s stare met him full in the face, as she lay there motionless, with her hair in pins.

  “Excuse me for disturbing you…I’ve brought back your husband, who made the mistake of panicking…”

  Martin was behind him. He could feel him there, but not see him.

  Footsteps rang out in the courtyard, and voices, particularly women’s voices: the office and laboratory staff were arriving. It was one minute to nine.

  A stifled cry from the madwoman next door. Bottles of medicine on the bedside table.

  “Are you feeling worse?”

  He knew she would not answer, that she would keep up the same tense, guarded attitude in spite of everything.

  It seemed as if she was afraid of a word, of a single word. As if one word might have let loose disasters.

  She had grown thinner. Her complexion was more ashen. But the eyes, those strange grey eyes, still retained their own burning, self-willed vitality.

  Martin came in, weak-kneed. His whole attitude seemed apologetic, begging for forgiveness.

  The grey eyes turned slowly towards him, with a look so hard and frozen that he averted his head, muttering:

  “It was at Jeumont station…One minute more and I’d have been in Belgium…”

  Words were needed, sentences, noise, to fill the emptiness that could be felt surrounding each person. An emptiness which was so palpable that their voices seemed to echo as if in a tunnel or a cave.

  But nobody talked. They uttered a few syllables, painfully, with anxious glances, then silence fell again, implacable as a fog.

  Something was happening, none the less. Something slow and stealthy: a hand was creeping out from under the covers and moving imperceptibly towards the pillow.

  The thin, damp hand of Madame Martin. Maigret, although looking the other way, was watching its progress, waiting for the moment when that hand would finally reach its goal.

  “Isn’t the doctor coming this morning?”

  “I don’t know…Is anybody looking after me? I’m here like an animal left to die…”

  But her eyes brightened as her hand at last touched the object she was seeking.

  A barely perceptible rustle of paper.

  Maigret took one step forward, seized Madame Martin by the wrist. She seemed to be devoid of strength, almost devoid of life. None the less within the space of one second she gave proof of incredible energy.

  What she held, she had no intention of relinquishing. Sitting up in bed, she defended herself furiously. She raised her hand to her mouth. With her teeth, she tore the white sheet of paper she was clutching.

  “Let go of me…Let go or I’ll scream…And you just stand by and watch him…”

  “Please, Inspector…I implore you…” Martin was moaning.

  He was listening anxiously. He was afraid of all the other tenants rushing in. He dared not intervene.

  “You brute…You foul brute…Striking a woman.”

  No, Maigret did not strike her. He merely grasped her hand, gripping the wrist rather tightly maybe, to prevent her from destroying the paper.

  “Aren’t you ashamed? A woman at death’s door…”

  A woman who was displaying energy the like of which Maigret had rarely encountered during the whole of his career in the police. His bowler hat fell on the bed. She suddenly bit him on the wrist.

  But with her nerves so strained she could not last out much longer, and he managed to part her fingers, while she uttered a moan of pain.

  Now she was weeping. She was weeping without tears, from resentment, from rage, perhaps also for the sake of striking an attitude?

  “And you let him do it…”

  Maigret’s back was too broad for the narrow room. It seemed to fill up the whole space, to shut out the light.

  He went to the fireplace, unfolded the sheet of paper, the ends of which were torn off, and ran his eyes over a typewritten document surmounted by the heading:

  Maîtres Laval and Piollet,

  Consultant Solicitors,

  Paris

  On the right, in red letters:

  Couchet ⁄ Martin Case.

  Consultation of 16 November.

  Two pages of dense typescript, single-spaced. Maigret read only scraps of it, half aloud, and the rattle of typewriters could be heard from the offices of the Serum laboratory.

  In view of the law of…

  Given the fact that the death of Roger Couchet was subsequent to that of his father…

  …that no will can deprive a legitimate son of the share to which he is entitled…

  …that in the case of the second marriage of the testator, to Madame Couchet née Dormoy, all goods were held in common…

  …that the natural heir of Roger Couchet is his mother…

  …have the honour to inform you that you are entitled to claim one half of the fortune left by Raymond Couchet, his goods and chattels and his real estate…which, according to our private information we estimate, subject to error, at about five million francs, the value of the firm known
as Dr Rivière’s Serums being reckoned in this estimate as three million…

  …We are entirely at your disposal for any steps required for the annulment of the will and…

  …We confirm our statement that we shall retain a commission of ten per cent for expenses on the sums thus recovered…

  Madame Martin had stopped crying. She was lying down again, and her cold gaze fixed once more on the ceiling.

  Martin was standing in the doorway, more distracted than ever, not knowing what to do with his hands, with his eyes, with his whole body.

  “There’s a postscript.” the Inspector muttered to himself.

  This postscript was preceded by a note:

  Strictly confidential .

  We have reason to believe that Madame Couchet, née Dormoy, is also prepared to contest the will. Furthermore, we have made inquiries concerning the third legatee, Nine Moinard. This person is a woman of questionable respectability, who has hitherto taken no steps to claim her rights. Seeing that she is at present without means, it appears to us that the most expedient plan is to offer her some sum by way of compensation. For our part, we would estimate such a sum at twenty thousand francs, which is likely to attract a person in Mademoiselle Moinard’s position. We await your decision on this matter.

  Maigret’s pipe had gone out. Slowly, he refolded the paper and slipped it into his wallet.

  Around him, utter silence reigned. Martin was holding his breath. His wife, lying on the bed with her fixed stare, looked as if she were already dead.

  “Two million five hundred thousand francs…” muttered the Inspector. “Less the twenty thousand to be given Nine so that she should prove accommodating…It’s true that Madame Couchet will probably pay half of that…”

  He was convinced that a smile of triumph, barely perceptible and yet eloquent, passed over the woman’s lips.

  “It’s quite a sum…Tell me, Martin…”

  The latter started, tried to stand on the defensive.

  “How much do you expect to get? I’m not referring to money…I’m talking about your sentence…Robbery…Murder…Perhaps they’ll prove premeditation…What’s your guess? No question of acquittal, of course, since it’s not a crime of passion…Oh, if only your wife had renewed relations with her former husband…But that wasn’t the case…A question of money, pure and simple…Ten years? Twenty years? D’you want my opinion?”

  “Notice that one can never forecast the average judge’s decision…”

  “All the same, there are precedents…Well, one may say that as a general rule, while they’re indulgent about crimes of passion, they show the utmost severity when money’s the motive…”

  He seemed to be talking for the sake of talking, to gain time.

  “It’s quite understandable. They are middle–class people themselves, businessmen…They think they’ve got nothing to fear as regards mistresses: either they’ve got none, or they’re sure of them…But they’ve got everything to fear from thieves…Twenty years? Well, no…I’d be more inclined to say the death penalty…”

  Martin had stopped moving now. He looked even more ghastly than his wife. He was forced to cling to the doorpost for support.

  “Only Madame Martin will be a rich woman…She’s reacbed an age when one knows how to enjoy life and wealth…”

  He went closer to the window.

  “Except that this window…This is the stumbling-block. They won’t fail to point out that from here, everything could have been seen…Everything, you hear…And that’s a serious matter…Because it might involve the question of complicity…Now in the Code there’s a small item that debars the murderer, even if he’s acquitted, from inheriting from his victim…Not only the murderer…His accomplices…You see why this window’s so important…”

  It was no longer merely silence that reigned around him. It was something more absolute, more disturbing, almost unreal: a total absence of life.

  And then a sudden question:

  “Tell me, Martin. What did you do with the gun?”

  Something living stirred in the passage: old Mathilde, evidently, with her moon face, her flabby stomach under a check apron.

  The shrill voice of the concierge, in the courtyard:

  “Madame Martin…It’s from Dufayel’s…” Maigret sat down in an easy chair which groaned, but did not collapse immediately.

  11

  The Drawing on the Wall

  “Answer me…That gun…”

  He followed Martin’s gaze and noticed that Madame Martin, whose eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, was moving her fingers against the wall.

  Poor Martin was making incredible efforts to understand what she was trying to tell him. He was growing impatient. He could see that Maigret was waiting.

  “I…”

  What could be the meaning of that square, or trapezium, that she was tracing with her skinny finger?

  “Well?”

  At that moment, Maigret felt really sorry for him. It must have been a terrible minute. Martin was gasping with impatience.

  “I threw it into the Seine…”

  The die was cast. As the Inspector drew the revolver from his pocket and laid it on the table, Madame Martin sat bolt upright in her bed, looking like a fury.

  “Well, I eventually found it in the dustbin…” said Maigret.

  And then the hoarse voice of the sick woman:

  “There…D’you understand now? Are you pleased with yourself? You’ve missed your chance, once again, as you’ve missed all your chances…As if you’d done it on purpose, for fear of going to prison…But you’ll go to prison all the same…For the robbery was your job…The three hundred and sixty notes that Monsieur threw into the Seine…”

  She was terrifying. It was clear that she had held herself back too long. The reaction was savage. And her excitement was so intense that sometimes several words rose to her lips at the same time, and she uttered the syllables confusedly…

  Martin hung his head. His part was played. His wife’s accusation was true, he had failed lamentably.

  “…Monsieur takes it into his head to be a thief, but he leaves his glove on the table…”

  All Madame Martin’s grievances were going to pour forth, pell-mell.

  Behind him, Maigret heard the meek voice of the man in the buff overcoat.

  “For months she’d been showing me the office through the window, and Couchet going off to the toilet…And she blamed me for making her life a misery, and for being incapable of providing for a wife…I went down there…”

  “Did you tell her you were going?”

  “No. But she knew quite well I was. She was at the window…”

  “And you saw, from a distance, that your husband had left his glove behind, Madame Martin?”

  “As if he’d left his visiting card. He might have done it on purpose to infuriate me…”

  “You took your revolver and you went down there…Couchet came in while you were in the office…He thought it was you who had robbed him…”

  “He wanted to have me arrested. Yes, indeed that’s what he wanted to do. As if it wasn’t thanks to me that he’d grown rich…Who was it that looked after him in the early days, when he barely made enough to live on dry bread? And men are all the same…He even reproached me for living in the house where he had his office…He accused me of sharing in the money he gave my son…”

  “And you fired?”

  “He’d already lifted the telephone to call the police.”

  “You went along to the dustbins. Under pretext of looking for a lost spoon you buried the revolver in the rubbish…Who did you meet then? ”

  She spat out:

  “The old fool from the first floor…”

  “Nobody else? I thought your son had come…He had no more money…”

  “And so what? ”

  “He’d not come to see you, but his father, isn’t that so? Only you couldn’t let him go into the office, where he would have discovered the body…Yo
u were in the courtyard, both of you…What did you tell Roger?”

  “To go away…You cannot understand a mother’s feelings…”

  “And he went off…Your husband came back…Nothing was said…Am I right? Martin was thinking about the notes he had finally thrown into the Seine, since at heart the poor fellow’s not a bad sort…”

  “The poor fellow’s not a bad sort.” repeated Madame Martin with unexpected fury. “Ha. Ha…And what about me? Me, who’ve always been unlucky…”

  “Martin doesn’t know who’s done the murder…He goes to bed. A whole day goes by without anything being said…But, the following night, you get up to hunt through the clothes he’s taken off…You look in vain for the notes…He watches you. You question him. And then comes the storm of rage that old Mathilde overheard from behind the door…You’ve committed a murder for nothing. That idiot Martin has thrown away the notes…A whole fortune in the Seine, just for lack of guts…It makes you ill…You become feverish…While Martin, not knowing that you were the murderer, goes off to tell the news to Roger…”

  “And Roger understands. He’d seen you in the courtyard…You’d prevented him from going further…He knows you well…”

  “He believes I suspect him…He imagines he’s going to be arrested, accused…And he cannot defend himself without accusing his mother…”

  “He wasn’t a very attractive young man, maybe…But there’s surely some excuse for his way of life…He’s sick of it all…sick of the women he goes to bed with, of drugs, of his wasted life in Montmartre and, on top of everything, of this family melodrama, of which he alone can guess all the motives…”

  “He jumps out of the window.”