Cécile is Dead

by Georges Simenon

  It was Maigret’s turn to go in, but he heard a voice with a slight foreign accent, quite close to him, saying, ‘I’d like a word with you, inspector.’

  He saw that it was Nouchi, whose funeral wear had been a black suit too small and too tight for her, no doubt bought a year or so earlier, before she began her adolescent development, which made her look even more ambivalent.

  ‘In a little while,’ he said crossly, because he did not feel indulgent towards her and her effrontery.

  ‘But it’s very important.’

  Maigret, entering the late Juliette Boynet’s apartment and closing the door behind him, growled, ‘Important or not, it will have to wait.’

  Since he had Gérard here, he was going to finish talking to him first, and he was not put out by Berthe’s presence. The old woman’s home was a better place for this conversation than his office at Quai des Orfèvres. The atmosphere was already taking effect on Gérard’s nerves. He was looking, with a kind of anxiety, at the walls, from which the black draperies had just been removed, and the lingering smell of the candles and flowers was like the musty odour of death.

  Berthe Pardon was as much at her ease as in her department at the Galeries Lafayette, or in the restaurant with its set menu where she ate her meals. Her round and still-childish face expressed serenity, contentment and what some would have called the peace of a clear conscience. She represented exactly the kind of young girl that people like to imagine, still untouched not only by sin but by the mere idea of sin.

  ‘Sit down, children,’ said Maigret, taking his pipe out of his pocket.

  Gérard was too tense to take one of the sitting-room armchairs. Quite unlike his sister, he was constantly on the alert, a prey to stormy thoughts, and his eyes never rested long on the same spot.

  ‘You might as well admit that you suspect me of killing my aunt and my sister,’ he said, his lips trembling. ‘Because I’m poor, because I’ve always had bad luck. It’s nothing to you to bother my wife, who’s expecting a baby and isn’t very strong anyway. Taking advantage of my absence to search our lodgings! You deliberately went there when I was out.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Maigret, lighting his pipe and looking at the portrait photos hanging on the walls.

  ‘Because you didn’t have a search warrant! Because you knew I wouldn’t have let you do it!’

  ‘No, no …’

  Berthe took off the marten fur stole, too long and too narrow, that she had been wearing round her neck, and the inspector noticed how white and plump her throat was.

  ‘And did you think of asking that two-faced Monfils where he was on the night of the crime? I’m sure you didn’t, because after all, he’s a …’

  ‘I’m going to ask him that very question this afternoon.’

  ‘In that case you can ask him whether my sisters and I haven’t been robbed all along.’

  He pointed to the portrait of a woman, a slightly faded enlargement.

  ‘That’s my mother,’ he said. ‘She was like Cécile. Not just physically, her nature too. You wouldn’t understand. She was always humble, always afraid that she was in the way, was taking more than her proper share. She had an almost pathological need for self-sacrifice. My poor sister was the same, and she lived her whole life like a domestic servant. Isn’t that so, Berthe?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ the girl agreed. ‘Aunt Juliette treated her as a skivvy.’

  ‘What the inspector doesn’t know …’

  Maigret almost smiled, because there was one thing, in any case, that the furious young man before him couldn’t suspect, which was that he himself suffered from an inferiority complex. He sometimes wanted to shake off the sense of humility that troubled him, and then he became aggressive, going too far in the opposite direction and facing others defiantly.

  ‘My mother was the elder sister. She was twenty-four when my aunt met Boynet, who was rich. They were orphaned, living in Fontenay on a pension that their parents had left them. So this is what happened: if she was going to marry Boynet, my aunt needed a dowry, and she persuaded my mother to give up her part of their inheritance. Everyone in the family knows about it, and if Monfils isn’t a liar he’ll confirm that. It meant that, thanks to my mother, Juliette made a good marriage.

  ‘“I’ll make it up to you one day,” she said. “You can be sure I’ll never forget this. Once I’m married …”

  ‘But nothing of the sort happened. Once she was married she didn’t think her sister good enough to visit her in the new surroundings where she lived now, and my poor mother went to work in a shop in Fontenay. She married the department manager there – he was already in bad health, and she went on working.

  ‘Then we were born, and my aunt only grudgingly agreed to be Cécile’s godmother. Do you know how much she sent her as a First Communion present? A hundred francs! When her husband was already the owner of a dozen apartment buildings.

  ‘“Never fear, Émilie,” she wrote to my mother. “If anything bad happens to you I’ll look after the children.”

  ‘My father was the first to die, and my mother followed him soon. Aunt Juliette was a widow by then and had just gone to live in this apartment, but at that time she occupied the whole fifth floor.

  ‘It was her cousin Monfils who brought us here from Fontenay. You were too young at the time to remember that, Berthe.

  ‘“Oh, my goodness, how thin they are!” Aunt Juliette cried when she saw us. “Anyone would think my poor sister didn’t give them anything to eat.”

  ‘Then she started criticizing everything about us: our clothes, our underwear, our shoes – she said they were too good for us – our manners …

  ‘Cécile, already in her teens, was treated like a domestic servant from the first. As for me, my aunt was going to apprentice me to some trade or other, on the grounds that the poor ought to be manual workers. If I came home with my trousers torn I never heard the end of it. I was ungrateful, I didn’t realize how much was being done for me and my sisters, I was sure to come to a bad end.

  ‘Cécile suffered without a word of protest. The maid was dismissed, because my sister could do all the work. Would you like to see how we were dressed?’

  He went to find a photograph standing on a piece of furniture. It showed the three siblings: Cécile in black looking as Maigret had known her, with her hair pulled back in a plain style; Berthe, young and chubby in a dress too long for her age; and Gérard, aged fourteen or fifteen, in a suit that had certainly not been made for him.

  ‘When I decided to join the army, my aunt didn’t send me so much as a five-franc piece at the end of the month. My comrades got parcels, cigarettes … All my life I’ve been seeing other people do well.’

  ‘How old were you when you left your aunt’s household, mademoiselle?’ asked Maigret, turning to the girl.

  ‘Sixteen,’ she replied. ‘I went off on my own to ask a large store for a job. They wanted to know my age, so I told them I was eighteen.’

  ‘When I got married,’ Gérard said, taking up his story again, ‘my aunt sent me a silver cake slice. One day, when we were very hard up, I wanted to sell it, and it fetched thirty francs. Cécile got hardly enough to eat, yet our aunt was a rich woman. And now that she’s dead it’s me you blame.’

  He was a pathetic sight, such was his bitterness and resentment.

  ‘Were you ever tempted to do away with your aunt?’ asked Maigret, in a calm tone that made the girl start with surprise.

  ‘If I say yes, you’ll come to the conclusion that I strangled her, won’t you? Well, yes, I often wanted to, but I’m afraid I didn’t feel brave enough, so now you can think whatever you like. Arrest me if you want to – that will be only one more injustice.’

  Berthe looked at the time on her little wristwatch. ‘Do you need me any longer, inspector?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s midday, and I was going to meet my friend. He’ll be waiting for me opposite the store.’ She still seemed virginal, even in
speaking of her lover. ‘You have my address: 22 Rue Ordener. I’m nearly always at home after seven in the evening. What are you going to do with Gérard? He’s always been like this; just take no notice. Do you need money, Gérard? Give Hélène my love, and tell her I’ll come and see her tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. The store said I could have three days off.’

  ‘So this is what we’ve come to,’ concluded Gérard. ‘Her friend is a married man! If my poor mother knew …’

  ‘Tell me, why did Cécile give you that key?’

  ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. Too bad for you! She gave it to me because the police don’t do their job properly! Because when poor people turn to the police they don’t even get a hearing! Cécile went to see you several times – I’m sure you won’t dare to deny it. She told you she was frightened, she told you there were things that she didn’t understand going on in the apartment. And what did you do? You laughed at her. You twice sent a useless junior officer who did nothing but walk past the building. And when Cécile went back to your office because she was sure there had been someone in this sitting room during the night, she felt that everyone in the Police Judiciaire was laughing at her … to the point where a succession of inspectors walked past the waiting room just to get a closer look at her.’

  Maigret had lowered his head.

  ‘That’s when she ordered the spare key. She asked me …’

  ‘Excuse me, wait a minute. Where were you in the habit of meeting your sister?’

  ‘In the street! When I needed to see her …’

  ‘To ask her for money?’

  ‘Yes, exactly, to ask her for money! Anyone would think you were pleased to have worked that out! She really did manage to give me a few francs, never very much, that she’d scraped together out of the housekeeping money. I used to wait for her on the corner of the road at the time when she went shopping. Is that what you wanted to know? There you are, then! It’s about ten days ago that she gave me the key. She asked me to come to the apartment now and then by night and try to find out what was going on.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I hadn’t done it yet, because of my wife. The doctor is afraid the baby may be premature. I promised Cécile to come after …’

  ‘How would you have got through the front door of the building?’

  ‘Cécile had thought of everything. The concierge comes upstairs with the post at seven every evening. She never fails to spend a few minutes with the Deséglise family – they rent the apartment on the second floor on the left. So I had only to come in at that moment.’

  ‘And what about your aunt?’

  ‘If she saw me, that would be just too bad! I know that whatever I say, you’ll turn it against me! It’s only too easy. Well, my aunt’s legs gave her trouble, and at about that time every evening she got Cécile to give them a hot air massage, using the kind of electric dryer you find in hairdressers’ salons. They make quite a lot of noise. All I’d have had to do was let myself into the apartment with my key and hide under Cécile’s bed. Are you happy? Now I must admit that I’m quite hungry and my wife will be expecting me back. You frightened her with that visit of yours, and if I don’t get back soon she’ll be thinking … So either you arrest me, or I’ll ask for your permission to go home. As for the inheritance, which is ours by right, we’ll see whether …’

  Here he turned his head aside, but not quickly enough to keep Maigret from seeing the tears of fury coming to his eyes.

  ‘You can go,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Really?’ inquired the young man sarcastically. ‘You’re not arresting me yet? That’s too kind of you. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  Gérard wasn’t sure he had heard correctly, but he thought that as he reached the door Maigret remarked, shrugging his shoulders, ‘Little idiot!’

  Did Nouchi still nourish hopes of seducing the inspector? She was certainly doing her best to give that impression, with a curious mixture of cunning and naivety. As she sat down in front of him, she even took care to raise her skirt above her angular knees.

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked, gruffly.

  ‘Out in the street.’

  ‘And what were you doing in the street?’

  ‘Talking to a friend.’

  ‘Are you sure this was the day before the crime was committed?’

  ‘It’s in my notebook. Every evening I write what I did in the day down in my notebook.’

  Maigret reflected that he himself must feature in this deranged girl’s peculiar notebook. Nouchi was the kind of girl to fall in love with anyone, from the police officer on the corner, to a neighbour who comes by at the same time every day, to a film star whom she has seen only on the screen, or a famous murderer. At the moment Maigret topped the ratings!

  ‘I can’t tell you my friend’s name, because he’s married.’

  Well, well, just like Berthe! Calm and composed Berthe with her cherry-red hat also had a lover who was a married man!

  ‘And you were in the street, near this building … Weren’t you afraid of being seen by your parents?’

  ‘My parents take no notice of that … They’re what you’d call laid back.’

  ‘And you say you saw Gérard Pardon entering the building.’

  ‘Yes, he was wearing the same clothes as today, that raincoat and his grey hat with the brim turned down. He looked round, and then he hurried into the corridor …’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Seven in the evening. I’m sure of that, because the postman had just gone by on the last of the day’s rounds.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s important, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t really tell.’

  ‘But if Cécile’s brother was in the house that evening …’

  ‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Don’t you want to ask me anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  She was obviously still hopeful and made no move to get to her feet. ‘You can count on me to help you. I know this building really well. I could tell you …’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He was making for the door, and she brushed past him on her way. Her muscles were as taut as violin strings. ‘Shouldn’t I come to your office so that my statement can be put on record?’

  ‘Not until we ask you to do so.’

  ‘Goodbye then, inspector.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  And Maigret went downstairs, with the key safely put away in his pocket. Inspector Jourdan was still at his post on the pavement. Maigret signalled to him to stay where he was and looked for a taxi.

  His wife couldn’t get a word out of him while he was having lunch at home in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. He propped his elbows on the table, left breadcrumbs on the tablecloth and ate noisily – all of them bad signs.

  Madame Maigret ventured to point out, ‘It’s not your fault about that girl Cécile.’ At such moments she addressed him formally. Indeed, she had even been known to speak of him to third parties as ‘the detective chief inspector’, or alternatively, but rarely, to say, ‘I’ll ask Monsieur Maigret’ about this or that.

  Did he even notice that he was eating a delicious crème caramel? As soon as he had wiped his mouth on his napkin, he took his overcoat, which was as stiff as a military greatcoat, off its hook. She could tell just by looking at him that it was useless to ask what time he would be home in the evening.

  ‘Hôtel du Centre, Boulevard Montparnasse,’ he told the driver as he got into a taxi.

  The hotel was a quiet one, catering for regular guests from the provinces, almost all of whom visited Paris on certain fixed days. There was a smell of veal casserole and biscuits in the air.

  ‘Monsieur Monfils, please,’ he asked.

  ‘He’s waiting for you in the conservatory, sir.’

  For the hotel had a conservatory, or anyway a room with large windows, containing a rockery and indoor plants. Monsieur Monfils, still in his mourning ga
rb, a handkerchief in his hand, his nostrils pink and moist, was seated in a rattan chair and smoking a cigar, in the company of a man whom Maigret had met before, or so he thought.

  ‘Let me introduce my lawyer, Maître Leloup. He will be representing my interests in Paris from now on.’

  The lawyer was as stout as Monfils was thin and had a glass of something that looked good on the table in front of him.

  ‘Good day, inspector,’ he said. ‘Do sit down. My client …’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Maigret interrupted, ‘but I didn’t know that Monsieur Monfils already needed a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m a commercial lawyer, inspector. We find ourselves facing a situation that, to say the least of it, is unclear, and until the will comes to light …’

  ‘Who’s to say that there is a will?’

  ‘Why, obviously! A well-to-do woman, a woman with her head screwed on like Madame Boynet, née Cazenove, can’t have failed to …’

  But at this moment Madame Monfils and the five Monfils sons made their way into the conservatory, the boys still in order of height.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ said their mother, with a polite smile, ‘but we’re leaving, Henri. We’ve just got enough time to get to the station. Goodbye, inspector. Goodbye, Maître Leloup. You won’t be staying in Paris too long, Henri, will you?’

  The children said goodbye to their father in turn. The bellhop was waiting with their luggage. Finally, when his family had left, Henri Monfils poured himself a glass of brandy and, after pouring another for Maigret without asking him, he began, ‘I thought it my duty, inspector, and in particular my duty to my family, to call on the services of a lawyer, who will be in touch with you henceforward, and who …’

  His nose was running. Monfils just had time to fish his handkerchief out of his pocket, wondering at the same time why the inspector was rising to his feet and picking up his bowler hat, which he had left on a chair.

  ‘But I … where are you going?’