Cécile is Dead

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I knew her in Fontenay-le-Comte, and her sister too. We were almost neighbours. I met her again when I rented this apartment. She was a widow … I suppose you didn’t know her when she was alive? I won’t say she was mad, but she was certainly eccentric, and obsessed with money. She kept her entire fortune at home with her, she was so terrified of being robbed by the banks.’

  ‘And you took advantage of it!’

  Maigret had no difficulty in imagining the man in those establishments that he frequented, closeted with the middle-aged ladies who confided in him. Monsieur Dandurand had then climbed another rung on the ladder and got to know the owners. He must have lost no time in meeting them at the bars in Montmartre where they gathered in the evening to play cards.

  And so Monsieur Charles Dandurand, the Fontenay lawyer, had become Monsieur Charles, the adviser and colleague of certain gentlemen who had the utmost confidence in him, because his knowledge of the criminal code was extremely useful to them.

  ‘The advantage was hers, inspector.’

  His long, pale hands, their backs covered with hairs, were fiddling with the pipes on his table. Tufts of grey hair also grew in his nostrils.

  ‘Haven’t you ever heard of old Juliette?’ he asked. ‘Of course, you’re solely concerned with the work of the homicide squad. But your colleague Cassieux … well, it began with that establishment in Rue d’Antin when it came up for sale. I mentioned it to Madame Boynet – I always called her Juliette; we used to play together as children. Juliette bought it. A year later I acquired the Paradise in Béziers for her, one of the best houses in France.’

  ‘Did she know what sort of investments you were making for her?’

  ‘Listen to me, inspector, I’ve known misers in my time – a provincial lawyer finds that all kinds of people cross his path – but their avarice was nothing by comparison to Juliette’s. She had a positively mystical love of money. Just ask the underworld bosses. They’ll confirm that Juliette was the sleeping partner in the ownership of a great many houses. Would you like to know the figures?’

  He got up and went over to a safe fixed to the wall, took out of it a notebook of dubious appearance and moistened his unattractive fingers to help him turn the pages better.

  ‘Last year I gave Juliette the sum of five hundred and ninety thousand francs in banknotes. A profit of five hundred and ninety thousand francs …’

  ‘And she kept all that cash in her apartment?’

  ‘I have every reason to think so, since she never went out any more and she wouldn’t have handed such sums over to her niece. Oh, I can guess what you’re thinking, I know that my situation appears in a bad light, but I assure you that you’re wrong, inspector. I have never cheated anyone out of so much as a centime. Ask the gentlemen I meet in the course of this business; they’re not the kind to put up with any irregularity. Everyone will tell you that Monsieur Charles behaves perfectly correctly. Tobacco?’

  Maigret pushed away the tobacco pouch offered to him and took his own out of his pocket.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Just as you like. I’m putting you in the picture – coming clean, as our underworld friends might say.’

  For a man who had spent half his life in the prim and proper society of Fontenay, he had an odd smile on his face when he spoke of the underworld.

  ‘Juliette had her obsessions, as I was saying. The idea that the nature of her investments might be discovered some day … and remember that she never saw anyone and no one was bothered about her … but all the same, she took ridiculous, positively touching precautions. During the six months and more since she last left her apartment, I had to go and see her at home. How do you think I had to act on those days?’

  Footsteps on the stairs. The Siveschis, on their way home, could be heard talking vociferously in Hungarian, and as they reached the floor above their conversation turned to argument.

  ‘Every morning the tenants’ newspapers are left at the lodge downstairs. The concierge sorts them into the proper pigeon-holes along with the post. When I collected my paper, I had to trace a cross in pencil on Juliette’s, and then poor Cécile, who knew nothing about these arrangements, came to pick it up a little later. At midnight I would go upstairs very quietly, to find Juliette waiting for me on the other side of the door, leaning on her walking-stick.’

  And the whole of the Police Judiciaire had laughed at Cécile when she talked about objects changing place on certain nights!

  ‘Didn’t the niece ever wake up?’

  ‘Cécile? No, her aunt made sure she didn’t. If you’ve searched the apartment, and I suppose you have, you must have found tubes of bromide in a drawer. On evenings when she expected to see me, Juliette saw to it that Cécile slept very soundly, and … oh, do forgive me; I haven’t offered you a drink yet. What would you like?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  ‘I can see what you think, but you’re on the wrong track, inspector. You don’t have to believe me when I tell you that I’d be incapable of killing so much as a chicken, and the sight of blood makes me feel faint …’

  ‘Madame Boynet was strangled.’

  The former lawyer was momentarily taken aback, as if upset by this argument. He looked at his pale hands.

  ‘I wouldn’t be capable of that, either. Besides, it wouldn’t have been in my interests to …’

  ‘Tell me, Monsieur Dandurand, how much money, in your opinion, did Madame Boynet have in her apartment?’

  ‘About eight hundred thousand francs.’

  ‘Do you know where she hid it?’

  ‘She never told me – but knowing her as I did, I should think she never moved far from it. It must have been within her reach, and I’d guess that she slept with her fortune, so to speak.’

  ‘All the same, nothing has been found. She must have had papers, property deeds, but they’ve disappeared from her desk. What time did you come down to this apartment last night?’

  ‘Between one and one thirty in the morning.’

  ‘According to the forensic pathologist, Madame Boynet was killed at about two in the morning. The concierge says that no one entered the building at that time. One more question: during your visit was there anything to suggest that Cécile wasn’t asleep?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Think hard. Are you sure that you didn’t leave anything in the apartment that could lead someone to suspect you of having been there?’

  Monsieur Charles thought, unflustered. ‘I don’t see what …’

  ‘Those are all the questions I have. Of course, I must ask you not to leave Paris, or even to move far from this apartment.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Maigret was already in the front hall.

  ‘Oh, forgive me. I almost forgot. Do you often see friends here?’ He emphasized the word friends.

  ‘None of them has ever been in this house. I am a prudent man myself, inspector. I don’t take it to the same lengths as poor Juliette; I’m not obsessed. My friends, as you call them, write to me at a post office box address. For good reasons, they did not know Madame Boynet’s address or even her real name, indeed to such a point that many of them thought Juliette didn’t really exist, and was only a story that I used in order to …’

  There were more footsteps on the stairs, and the breathless voice of the concierge. ‘Stop, Monsieur Gérard!’ Then she called, ‘Detective chief inspector! Sir!’

  Maigret opened the door, and as the light went out at that very moment he activated the timer switch. An agitated young man whom he had not seen before was standing in front of him, trembling.

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ he asked, looking at Maigret with wild eyes.

  ‘This is Monsieur Gérard,’ explained Madame Benoit. ‘He came bursting in like a madman. I told him that Mademoiselle Cécile …’

  ‘Be good enough to go back into your apartment, please, Monsieur Dandurand,’ said Maigret.

  The Siveschis’ door had opened, and another do
or on the floor below was opening as well.

  ‘Follow me, Monsieur Gérard. You can go back downstairs now, Madame Benoit.’

  The inspector had the key to the dead woman’s apartment in his pocket. Letting the young man go ahead of him, he bolted the door after them.

  ‘Have you only just heard that …’

  ‘Is it true? Cécile is dead?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘The concierge.’

  The specialists from Criminal Records had turned the apartment upside down; they had searched all the drawers and cupboards and left the contents scattered willy-nilly.

  ‘My sister?’

  ‘Cécile is dead, yes.’

  Gérard was in such a nervous condition that he couldn’t shed tears. He was looking round as if unable to understand what had happened, and his expression of dismay made him a sad sight.

  ‘It’s impossible … where is she?’

  ‘Not here. Calm down … wait a moment.’

  He remembered seeing a bottle of rum in a cupboard, found it and offered it to the young man. ‘Drink some of this. Now, how did you find out that …?’

  ‘I was at the café when …’

  ‘Excuse me, let me ask you some questions. It will be quicker that way. What were you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘I went to three different addresses. I’m looking for a job.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  Gérard grimaced. ‘Any job! My wife is having our baby in a few days’ time. The landlord has given us notice, and I …’

  ‘Did you go home for dinner?’

  ‘No, I was at the café …’

  Only then did Maigret realize that Gérard was drunk, or rather he had had more to drink than was good for him. ‘Were you looking for a job at this café?’

  A furious, hate-filled stare. ‘You too, of course! Like my wife! You don’t know what it’s like, chasing about in vain from morning to evening! Do you know what I did last week, three nights running? You don’t, do you? It’s all the same to you! Well, I was unloading vegetables at Les Halles, just to earn enough to buy food. I was hoping to meet someone who’d promised me work at the café this evening.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. A tall redhead, he deals with wireless sets.’

  ‘What was the café?’

  ‘You suspect me of murdering my aunt, don’t you?’

  He was trembling from head to foot, and looked as if he might be about to charge at the inspector.

  ‘The Canon de la Bastille, if you want to know. I live in Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. The redhead never turned up. I didn’t want to go home without …’

  ‘Haven’t you dined?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you? There was a newspaper lying about on a table. I read the small ads first, same as usual. You don’t know what it’s like, reading the small ads and telling yourself … Well, in short …’ He made a gesture, as if dismissing a nightmare. ‘I suddenly saw my aunt’s name on the third page. I didn’t take it in at first. It was only a few lines. “Landlady in Bourg-la-Reine found strangled in her bed,” said the headline. And under it: “Madame Juliette Boynet, owner of a property in Bourg-la-Reine, has been …”’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s ages since I had a watch. Maybe half past nine? Anyway, I rushed home. I told Hélène …’

  ‘That’s your wife?’

  ‘Yes. I told her my aunt was dead and I caught the bus.’

  ‘Had you been drinking meanwhile?’

  ‘Only a little glass to buck me up. Anyway, I wondered why Cécile hadn’t told me.’

  ‘I suppose you will be your aunt’s heir?’

  ‘With my two sisters, yes … I caught the tram at Le Châtelet and … but Cécile, why was Cécile killed? The concierge has just told me …’

  ‘Cécile was killed because she knew who the murderer was,’ said Maigret slowly.

  Unable to calm down, the young man reached out his hand to the bottle of rum.

  ‘No, you’ve had enough,’ said the inspector. ‘What you need now is a cup of strong coffee.’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’

  He was aggressive, looking at his questioner as if he were an enemy.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I murdered my aunt and my sister?’ he suddenly cried in a fury.

  Maigret made the mistake of not replying. He wasn’t really thinking about that. He had been letting his mind wander, as he sometimes did, or more precisely he had been bringing the scene around him to life: the same apartment, but a few years earlier, the aunt with her obsessions, the teenage Cécile, her sister Berthe still a child with her hair worn loose, Gérard wanting to enlist so as to escape the atmosphere here …

  He started as the young man grabbed him by the lapels of his overcoat, shouting, ‘Answer me! You think … you really think I …’

  He smelled strongly of alcohol. Maigret stepped back and caught hold of both Gérard’s wrists.

  ‘Take it easy, young man,’ he murmured. ‘Take it easy.’

  He was forgetting his own strength, and the other man groaned as he felt the inspector’s iron grip.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  Tears had finally sprung into his eyes.

  5.

  Was there some kind of epidemic in Bourg-la-Reine? Maigret could have resigned himself to that, but he couldn’t get the question out of his mind. No doubt the undertaker’s man would have replied that deaths occur all at once, that you can go for five days without any call for a first-class or a second-class hearse, and then be suddenly overwhelmed by the demand for them.

  This morning the undertaker’s services were in great demand, so much so that one of the horses pulling Juliette Boynet’s hearse was not a proper undertaker’s horse at all and tried ten times to break into a trot, thus lending a jerky appearance to the cortège and setting a fast pace that was incompatible with the dignity of a funeral.

  A man called Monfils, an insurance agent from Luçon, seemed to be in charge of the ceremony. As soon as the murder of Juliette Boynet had been announced in the press, he set off for Paris, already in deep mourning garb (which no doubt dated from a preceding funeral), and he was to be seen everywhere, tall, thin and pale, his nose red from a head cold that he had caught on the train.

  He was Juliette Boynet’s first cousin.

  ‘I know what I’m talking about, inspector,’ he told Maigret. ‘It was always settled that she would be leaving us something, and she agreed to be our eldest son’s godmother. I’m sure there must be a will. If it hasn’t been found, it may be that other people had an interest in disposing of it. Incidentally, I shall appear as plaintiff in any trial.’

  He had insisted on a proper burial, leaving from the home of the deceased, where a chapel of rest was to be set up in the fifth-floor apartment.

  ‘In this family,’ he pronounced, ‘we are not in the habit of burying our dead in any old fashion.’

  On that same morning, he had gone to the railway station to meet his wife, who was also in deep mourning, and their five children, who were to follow the procession in descending order of size, holding their hats. Five boys, all with fair hair too unruly to submit to being combed.

  This was the time of day when traffic on the main road was especially dense. In particular, there was an uninterrupted line of vans coming back from Les Halles. It was clear weather, the sun shining, but not strongly, the air cold and biting; the mourners who had come were stamping their feet and digging their hands in their pockets to keep warm.

  Maigret had not slept the night before. He and Lucas had been watching his gang of Poles from the room in Rue de Birague. He had been feeling morose and irritable ever since the death of Cécile three days earlier. The Poles, who prevented him from devoting his mind entirely to the Bourg-la-Reine case, were really beginning to annoy him. At seven in the morning he made up his mind.

  ‘You stay here,’ he told Lucas. ‘I’
m going to nab the first of them to leave their quarters.’

  ‘Be careful, sir,’ said Lucas. ‘They’re armed.’

  Maigret shrugged his shoulders, went into the Hôtel des Arcades and stationed himself near the staircase. A quarter of an hour later, the door of the Poles’ room opened. A giant of a man emerged and began coming downstairs. Maigret pounced on him from behind, and the two men rolled over and over until they reached the ground floor, where the inspector got to his feet after handcuffing his adversary. On hearing his whistle, Torrence came running.

  ‘Take him to headquarters,’ Maigret told him. ‘I’ll leave it to you to grill him … until he talks, understand? I want him squealing loud and long.’

  And after knocking the dust off his clothing, he went to eat croissants, washed down with coffee, at the bar of the nearby café.

  Everyone in the Police Judiciaire knew that it was better not to cross him at such times, when even Madame Maigret didn’t venture to ask when he would be home for lunch or dinner.

  Now he was there on the pavement outside the Bourg-la-Reine apartment building, leaning on the window of the grocery shop and smoking his pipe with angry little puffs. The case had been in the newspapers, and there were a good many curious onlookers, not to mention half a dozen journalists and some photographers. The two hearses stood outside the building, Juliette Boynet’s in front, Cécile’s behind it, and the tenants of the apartments, on the initiative of Madame With-All-Due-Respect, who claimed that it was the least they could do, had clubbed together to buy a wreath.

  In Memory Of Our Much-Lamented Landlady.

  Outside stood the Monfils couple and their sons, representing the family of Juliette Boynet, née Cazenove, another group representing the family of her dead husband, the Boynets and the Machepieds, who lived in Paris.

  There was evidently no love lost between the two groups, who glared at one another. Boynet and Machepied both claimed that they had been robbed, saying that at the time of her husband’s death the old woman had promised that part of her fortune would return to his family some day. They had presented themselves at Police Judiciaire headquarters as a delegation the day before, and the commissioner had seen them, for they were persons of some importance in the city, one of them a municipal councillor.