Maigret and Monsieur Charles

by Georges Simenon

  She drank a second glass nonetheless.

  ‘They’re in touch with the police stations …’

  ‘You enjoy speaking to me like this, don’t you?’

  ‘Believe me, I don’t.’

  ‘You hate me …’

  ‘I don’t hate anyone …’

  ‘Is that all you had to say to me?’

  ‘That’s all, yes. We’ll see each other again very soon, no doubt.’

  ‘I have no wish to see you. I despise you, Monsieur Maigret. And now, get out of here … Claire! … Throw these people out …’

  There was still a police officer on the pavement opposite 207a, and Maigret was in two minds whether to stop the surveillance, but in the end he decided to continue with it. The telephone tap had been fruitless, as he should have expected because Nathalie had had no hesitation in going outside at night to call from a public phone booth, wearing a nightdress beneath her fur coat.

  ‘What do you think, Lapointe?’ asked Maigret as he clambered into the car.

  ‘If she behaves like that with the reporters, she can expect some hostile press coverage tomorrow morning …’

  ‘I don’t have anything more to do at the office today, so drop me off at home …’

  Madame Maigret greeted him with a mischievous smile.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Why should I be happy?’

  ‘You’ve found your body, haven’t you?’

  ‘The radio?’

  ‘Yes, there was a brief mention on the six o’clock news … Are you hungry?’

  ‘No. Not after the few hours I’ve just spent.’

  He went over to the cupboard and wondered what to have to drink, because he was feeling queasy. In the end he poured himself a small glass of gin, which was rare. The bottle had been there for more than a year.

  ‘Do you want some?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you … Sit down for a few minutes and read the papers and I’ll rustle up a light meal.’

  The soup was already made. She then served a ham salad with cold potatoes.

  ‘You’re worried, aren’t you?’ she said quietly while they were eating.

  ‘There are things I don’t understand, and I don’t like that.’

  ‘Who are you working with?’

  She was aware that he always teamed up with one of his closest colleagues. Sometimes it was Janvier, sometimes Lucas, but these days it was Lucas who stood in for him when he was away. On this case, he happened to be working with Lapointe.

  ‘Shall I turn the television on?’

  ‘No. I’m feeling too lazy to watch it.’

  He settled in his armchair and went back to skimming the newspapers, his mind elsewhere, mainly on Nathalie, who had just thrown him out of her apartment and spoken so rudely.

  By nine o’clock, Maigret had dozed off and his wife was about to wake him up so that he could go to bed when the telephone rang, making him jump.

  ‘Hello … Yes, speaking … Is that you, Grenier? … Did you find out anything?’

  ‘First of all, a question. Was this gentleman in the habit of wearing a hat?’

  Maigret thought for a moment.

  ‘I have never seen him and it didn’t occur to me to question his wife or his employees on the subject … Wait … He dressed elegantly, in a very youthful style … I imagine him bareheaded …’

  ‘Otherwise someone removed his hat before hitting him over the head … Not just once, in my view, but a dozen times, very violently … His skull is in pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle …’

  ‘No bullets?’

  ‘Not in his head or anywhere else … I don’t know what weapon the murderer used: a hammer, a spanner, or a tyre iron … Most likely a tyre iron … Two blows would have been sufficient to kill him, but the murderer was in a frenzy …’

  ‘What about that sort of hole by his waist?’

  ‘That’s more recent. The body was partially decomposed when it got caught on an anchor or something like that …

  ‘There’s one detail I find interesting … His ankles were badly damaged by what looks like wire to me, so much so that one of his feet has almost been cut off … That wire must have been used to tie the body to a weight, a breeze block or some heavy object …’

  ‘How long do you think he’d been in the water?’

  ‘It’s hard to be precise … Several weeks …’

  ‘Four or five weeks?’

  ‘It’s possible. By the way, I examined his clothes. In one of the pockets, I found a set of keys … I’ll send them over to you first thing tomorrow morning …’

  ‘I’m eager to see them.’

  ‘You have more people than I do. You could send someone to fetch them.’

  ‘All right. Leave them with the concierge.’

  ‘I’m now going to have a nice hot bath and treat myself to a good dinner … I wouldn’t like to have to do this kind of work every day … Goodnight, Maigret.’

  ‘Goodnight, Grenier … And thank you.’

  The following morning, Maigret was in his office before nine. His first task was to send an inspector to pick up the keys from the Forensic Institute.

  There was a knock on his door. It was Lapointe, who immediately grasped that there was a new development.

  ‘Grenier telephoned me … Sabin-Levesque was knocked unconscious with a blunt instrument, as they say in reports. A dozen extremely violent blows … The murderer tied a rock or a weight of some sort to his ankles before throwing him into the water …

  ‘Lastly, Grenier found a set of keys in one of his pockets …’

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Lapointe went to fetch them from the inspectors’ office and brought them to Maigret with a strange smile on his face.

  ‘Look …’

  One of the daily newspapers bore the headline:

  RENOWNED LAWYER MURDERED

  The photograph was quite unexpected for someone who had seen Nathalie perhaps an hour before it was taken. There wasn’t the slightest trace of her drunkenness. She had made the effort to get changed, and wore a black suit and white lace blouse in place of her beige suit.

  Her brown hair was carefully styled. The expression on her face, which looked more elongated, was sad, a photogenic sadness, and she was holding a handkerchief as if she’d just been crying and was afraid of breaking down again.

  HIS GRIEF-STRICKEN WIDOW IS BAFFLED

  The interview with Nathalie was quite lengthy. She had received the journalist not in the boudoir but in the big drawing room.

  ‘When did your husband go missing?’

  ‘About a month ago. I wasn’t worried because he would sometimes have to go and see one of his clients in the provinces.’

  ‘Who is replacing him at the firm?’

  ‘His chief clerk, who is very competent. My husband trusted him fully and had given him power of attorney.’

  ‘Did the two of you go out a lot?’

  ‘Rarely. We only entertained our few friends occasionally. We led a quiet life.’

  ‘Was it you who went to the police?’

  ‘I decided to go and see Detective Chief Inspector Maigret to tell him of my concerns.’

  ‘Why Maigret?’

  ‘I don’t know … I’d read about several of his cases and felt I could trust him …’

  There was a shorter interview with Jean Lecureur.

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Didn’t he leave you a message?’

  ‘No. He never left me messages, but he would telephone me every two or three days …’

  ‘Did he do so this time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you not worried?’

  ‘After aroun
d ten days …’

  ‘Did it not occur to you to go to the police?’

  ‘I merely informed Madame Sabin-Levesque of my fears.’

  Another newspaper published a photo of Nathalie, seated, in the big drawing room.

  MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF PARIS LAWYER

  The article was more or less the same, except that this newspaper emphasized the fact that the police hadn’t been informed. It ended with:

  It would seem that Monsieur Sabin-Levesque was in the habit of mysteriously disappearing.

  ‘The amazing thing,’ said Lapointe with admiration in his voice, ‘is the way she transformed herself in such a short time.’

  The inspector came back with the set of keys, which comprised half a dozen small keys and the key to a safe, probably the one on the ground floor.

  Bonfils brought him the list of Paris nightclubs and cabarets and Maigret was surprised at how many there were. The list filled three pages, single spaced.

  He slipped it into his drawer, stood up and sighed:

  ‘Boulevard Saint-Germain …’

  ‘Do you think she’ll see you?’

  ‘She’s not the person I want to see. But first of all, I have to go up to the prosecutor’s office …’

  He learned that the examining magistrate in charge of the case was Coindet, a genial and good-natured elderly judge. Maigret had known him since the early days of his career. He found his office at the far end of the examining magistrates’ corridor.

  Coindet held out his hand.

  ‘I was expecting you. Have a seat.’

  The clerk was typing and was about the same age as Coindet.

  ‘I only know what I’ve read in the papers, since I haven’t received a report yet.’

  ‘Because there’s nothing to report,’ replied Maigret returning his smile. ‘The body was only found yesterday, remember.’

  ‘I’ve heard that you have been investigating for three days.’

  ‘In vain. I need a search warrant, for this morning.’

  ‘Boulevard Saint-Germain?’

  ‘Yes. Madame Sabin-Levesque has taken a dislike to me …’

  ‘That doesn’t come across in her interview …’

  ‘She tells the press what she wants them to hear … I want to search the lawyer’s apartment from top to bottom. Until now I’ve only been able to have a quick look around.’

  ‘You won’t leave me too long without an update?’

  This was an allusion to Maigret’s reputation. He was famed for carrying out his investigations as he saw fit, without paying any attention to the examining magistrates.

  Twenty minutes later, he and Lapointe walked under the arch they were beginning to know well. It occurred to Maigret to go into the lodge, where he was greeted by a very dignified male concierge. The lodge was like a living room.

  ‘I was wondering whether you’d come and talk to me, inspector …’

  ‘I’ve been so busy …’

  ‘I understand. I’m a former police officer; I used to work in Traffic … I presume you’re intrigued by the lady?’

  ‘You don’t come across her sort every day.’

  ‘They certainly are – or were, since the man is dead – a strange couple. Here are people who have two cars and a chauffeur. But when they go out, it’s usually on foot. I’ve never seen them leave together and I’ve heard they take their meals separately.’

  ‘Nearly always.’

  ‘They don’t entertain, despite what she told the journalists. The husband goes off from time to time, his head in the clouds and his hands in his pockets like a young man, not taking anything with him. I presume he has a second household somewhere or a bachelor pad in town …’

  ‘I’ll come back and see you if I need to. You seem very observant.’

  ‘Habit, isn’t it?’

  A few moments later, Maigret rang the Sabin-Levesques’ bell.

  Claire flushed with anger on seeing the two men and she would probably have slammed the door in their faces if Maigret hadn’t taken the precaution of wedging his foot in the doorway.

  ‘Madame is—’

  ‘I’m not interested in Madame. If you can read, read this document. It’s a search warrant, issued by the examining magistrate. Unless you’d like to be arrested for obstructing the course of justice …’

  ‘What do you want to see?’

  ‘I don’t need you. I know my way around …’

  And, followed by Lapointe, he headed for the lawyer’s rooms. He was particularly interested in the desk. Of all the pieces of furniture, the little mahogany desk was the only one whose four drawers were locked.

  ‘Open the window, would you? It smells musty in here …’

  He tried three keys before finding the right one. The drawer contained only letter-headed paper, envelopes and two fountain-pens, one of solid gold.

  The contents of the second drawer were more interesting. There were a number of photographs, mostly taken on the Riviera, in the grounds of an enormous 1900s-style villa. Nathalie was some twenty years younger and the lawyer, in his shirt-sleeves, looked like a student.

  On the back was written ‘La Florentine’, which was clearly the name of the villa.

  In one of the photos, a big Alsatian stood very close to Sabin-Levesque.

  It suddenly dawned on Maigret that there was neither a dog nor a cat in the apartment.

  He was about to shut the drawer when, right at the back, he spotted a little passport photo of the kind that comes from an automatic booth. It was Nathalie, even younger than in the Cannes photos, and more importantly, very different. Her smile was deliberately mysterious, her eyes questioning.

  On the back, a single word – a name: Trika.

  It was obviously an alias and she hadn’t chosen it to work as a lawyer’s secretary in Rue de Rivoli.

  When she’d told Maigret about her past and given him the name of her supposed former employer, and above all when he’d learned that the latter had been dead for ten years, it had set Maigret thinking.

  At that point, she knew that her husband was dead and there was no one to contradict her. She had probably never been a secretary, or even a shorthand typist.

  ‘Look, Lapointe … What does she remind you of?’

  Lapointe thought for a moment.

  ‘A high-class hooker …’

  ‘And we know where Sabin-Levesque went to look for his female companions.’

  Maigret carefully slid the photo into his wallet. Then he opened the left-hand drawers. The top one contained unused cheque books. But there was one that had no cheques left and the stubs, instead of having the name of the payee written on them, all said ‘Pay bearer’.

  There were other odds and ends: a wristwatch, cufflinks, each set with a little yellow stone, elastic bands, stamps.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

  She was there, of course. Claire had dragged her out of bed. He could tell she’d just drunk a large slug of brandy because she reeked of alcohol from a metre away.

  ‘Hello, Trika …’

  She had enough self-control not to recoil.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Read this …’

  He held out the search warrant, which she brushed aside.

  ‘I know. My maid told me. So make yourselves at home. Do you want to search my dressing gown?’

  Her eyes were different from the previous day. They expressed more than anxiety – a terror which she could barely disguise. Her lips were trembling more than ever, and so were her hands.

  ‘I’m not done with this apartment yet.’

  ‘Does my presence bother you? … I haven’t had the occasion to set foot in these rooms for a very long time …’

  Ignoring her, Maigret opened and sh
ut doors and drawers, and went into the closet, sliding back the doors.

  He found some thirty suits, mostly in light colours. They bore the label of one of Paris’ most renowned tailors.

  ‘It appears your husband didn’t wear a hat …’

  ‘Since I never went out with him, I wouldn’t know …’

  ‘Congratulations on your performance yesterday with the press …’

  Despite her state of mind, she was flattered and couldn’t help smiling.

  The bed was vast and low, the room very masculine with its leather-covered walls.

  The bathroom looked as if it had been used the previous day. The toothbrush was in its place, in a glass, the razor on a stand, with the shaving soap and an alum stone. The floor and walls were of white marble, as were the bathtub and other fittings. There was a picture window with a view over a garden which Maigret was seeing for the first time.

  ‘Is that your garden?’ he asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  It was rare to find such beautiful trees in a private garden in Paris.

  ‘By the way, Trika, in which club were you a hostess?’

  ‘I know my rights. I’m not obliged to answer you.’

  ‘But you will have to answer the examining magistrate.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll have my lawyer with me.’

  ‘Because you already have a lawyer?’

  ‘I’ve had one for a very long time.’

  ‘The one on Rue de Rivoli?’ he asked sardonically.

  He wasn’t being harsh with her deliberately. But her behaviour tended to exasperate him.

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘Now let’s go into your apartment …’

  In passing, he read a few of the titles of the books on the shelves in the study. There were contemporary authors, all distinguished names, and a number of books in English, which the lawyer must have spoken fluently.

  After crossing the small sitting room and the drawing room, they ended up in Nathalie’s boudoir. She stood there gazing at them. Maigret opened a few drawers, which contained nothing but trinkets of no interest.

  He went into her bedroom. The bed was as big as Sabin-Levesque’s, but it was white, as was the rest of the furniture. The drawers mainly contained very fine underwear, most likely custom-made.