Maigret and the Spinster (4 page)

“It’s disappeared…”

“What do you conclude from that?”

Whereupon Maigret, forgetting the disparity of rank, gave way to a burst of irritability:

“Conclude! Conclude! Are you able to draw any conclusion?”

The fair-haired inspector, who was well within earshot, averted his head. Noticing this, Maigret pulled himself up short.

“I’m sorry, Chief. But you must admit that this place is about as secure as a barn…To think that someone should have been able to go into the waiting room and…”

He was at the end of his tether. Savagely, he bit the stem of his pipe.

“Not to mention that accursed door, which should have been boarded up years ago.”

“If you had interviewed the young woman when…”

Poor Maigret! He was a pathetic sight, tall and heavily built, looking as solid as a rock, with his head bowed, staring at that limp bundle of clothes at his feet, that lifeless lump, and once again mopping his face with his handkerchief.

“What are we going to do?” asked the Chief Commissioner, wanting to change the subject.

Acknowledge publicly that a murder had been committed within the very precincts of police headquarters, or, to be more precise, in this breach in the party wall between police headquarters and the Palais de Justice?

“There’s just one favor I’d like to ask you. Would you mind if I put Lucas in charge of that business of the Poles?”

Maybe it was just that Maigret was hungry. He had had nothing to eat since breakfast. On the other hand, he had had three little sips of brandy, which had sharpened his appetite.

“If that’s what you want…”

“Shut this door, dear fellow, and stay on guard. I’ll be back shortly.”

Maigret returned to his office and, still wearing his hat and coat, telephoned Madame Maigret.

“No…I’ve no idea when I’ll be home…It would take too long to explain…Of course not…I shan’t be leaving Paris.”

He considered ordering sandwiches, as he so often did, from the Brasserie Dauphine. But he felt he needed air. It was still drizzling outside. He decided to go to the little bar opposite the statue of Henri IV, in the middle of the Pont Neuf.

He ordered a ham sandwich.

“How are things, Chief Superintendent?”

The waiter knew Maigret. He recognized the significance of those drooping eyelids and that set face.

“Having trouble?”

A game of
belote
was in progress at a table near the bar. Other customers were playing the pinball machines.

Maigret bit into his sandwich, and thought: Cécile is dead. In spite of his heavy overcoat, it sent a shiver down his spine.

M
aigret had been known to shrug when people expressed amazement at the resignation of the poor, the sick, and the handicapped, the thousands upon thousands of solitary men and women without hope, each confined to a separate little cell in the big city. He knew from experience that man could adapt to any environment, once it was filled with his own warmth and his own familiar smells and habits.

The lodge where he was now sitting, in a creaking cane armchair, was barely eight feet by ten in area. The ceiling was low. The uncurtained glass door opened onto a dark hall, for the only light on the stairs was operated by a time switch near the front door. A bed with a red eiderdown. On the table, the glutinous remains of a pig’s trotter, crumbs on the brown oilcloth cover, a knife, dregs of bluish wine in a glass.

Seated opposite, Madame “Saving-Your-Presence” was speaking, her cheek practically welded to her shoulder as a result of chronic arthritis of the neck, her throat wrapped in thermogene wool, the ugly pink edge of which showed above her black shawl.

“No, Chief Superintendent…Saving your presence, I won’t sit in the armchair…It belonged to my late husband, and, in spite of my age and all my little aches and pains, I wouldn’t wish to take the liberty!”

A smell of stale cat’s urine. The cat, a tom, was stretched out in front of the stove, purring. The electric light bulb, dimmed by twenty years’ accumulation of dust on the shade, emitted a reddish glow. From somewhere came the sound of rain dripping into a zinc bucket, and every few seconds, the roar of a car speeding along the highway, or the rumble of a truck, or the screeching of streetcar brakes.

“As I was saying, saving your presence, the poor lady was our landlord. Juliette Boynet was her married name. And when I say ‘poor lady,’ Chief Superintendent, sir, it’s out of respect for the dead, because she was a real bitch, God rest her soul. What’s more, it was something to be grateful for, when the good Lord, a few months ago, deprived her of the use of her legs, up to a point. It’s not that I want to be spiteful, but when she could get around like the rest of us, life just wasn’t worth living…”

When he had checked with the Bourg-la-Reine police station, Maigret had been astonished to learn that the dead woman was not yet sixty, for in spite of her crudely dyed hair, she had looked older, with her bloated face and big, bulging eyes.

Juliette Marie Jeanne Léontine Boynet née Cazenove, aged fifty-nine, born at Fontenay-le-Comte, Vendée, housewife.

With her twisted neck, her hair screwed up in a meager little bun, her black woolen shawl tightly drawn over a scrawny bosom—the very thought of the old concierge’s withered breasts caused him to shudder!—Madame “Saving-Your-Presence” gloatingly savored her words as earlier she had savored her pig’s trotter, pausing at intervals to direct a glance at the glass door.

“As you see, this is a quiet house…At this hour everyone, or nearly everyone, is at home.”

“How long has Madame Boynet been the owner of the building?”

“Since it was built, I should think…Her husband was a building contractor. He built several houses in Bourg-la-Reine. He died young, he was under fifty, and it was the best thing that could have happened to him, poor man…After his death, she came here to live. That was fifteen years ago. Saving your presence, she was just as bad then as she was when she died, except that she had the use of her legs and was always on my back. She was just as bad with the tenants. God help the owner if she ever caught sight of a dog or a cat on the stairs. And if ever anyone screwed up the courage to ask her to carry out any repairs…You’ll see what I mean when I tell you that this building was the last in the whole of this area to be converted to electricity.”

They could hear footsteps on the second floor, and a baby crying.

“That’s Madame Bourniquel,” explained Madame “Saving-Your-Presence.” “Her husband is a commercial traveler. He has a small car. He’s probably away at the moment, covering the southwestern territory. He’s usually away for three months at a time. They have four children already, and are expecting a fifth, in spite of the fuss there’s been over the baby carriage. Madame Boynet, God rest her soul, would never allow them to leave it in the lobby, so it has to be carted up and down-stairs twice a day. There now, that’s their maid taking down the garbage can.”

The light went on, and a wizened woman in a white apron came into view. The huge galvanized-iron can that she was clasping to her stomach gave her a deformed appearance.

“What was I saying?…Oh, yes!…You won’t say no to a glass of wine, will you, Chief Superintendent?…But you must! I have one good bottle left…a present from Monsieur Bourniquel. He’s in the wine trade, you see…Well, one fine day, about twelve years ago, Madame Boynet’s sister, who was also a widow, died at Fontenay, and Madame Boynet sent for her three children, two girls and a boy. Everyone in the neighborhood was amazed at this generosity. In those days, she occupied the whole of the fifth floor. The boy, Monsieur Gérard, was the first to get away. He enlisted in the army, to escape from his aunt’s clutches, no doubt. And then he got married…He lives in Paris, somewhere near the Bastille. He hardly ever shows up here…I have the impression he hasn’t done too well for himself.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Mostly he waits for his sister outside. He doesn’t suffer from false pride. His wife is another one who’s expecting a baby…He was here last week, and went up to the apartment. He needed money, I’d think. He didn’t look very happy when he came down again. The fact is, if you wanted to persuade the old lady to part with her money, saving your presence, you had to be a very early bird…Your very good health!…”

She turned around sharply and stared at the door. The light had not been switched on. Still, a faint rustling could be heard. Madame “Saving-Your-Presence.” got up and swiftly opened the door. A girlish figure could be seen slinking away.

“Loitering on the staircase, as usual, Mademoiselle Nouchi! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

She sat down again.

“That’s the trouble with having a place this size to look after,” she grumbled. “Those people!…They are the fifth-floor tenants, the old lady’s nearest neighbors…But as I was saying…first, Monsieur Gérard went off to join the army. Then, the younger sister, Berthe, who didn’t get on with her aunt either, walked out. She’s a salesgirl at the Galeries Lafayette. The old woman took the chance and rented half of the apartment space to a Hungarian family, the Siveschis. They have two daughters, Nouchi and Potsi. Potsi is the fat one, and she’s most of the time loafing around half-naked. Mind you, that Nouchi, who is only sixteen, isn’t much better. She goes with men at night, in any dark corner she can find, sometimes even in the entrance hall.”

The best thing, he felt, was to let the concierge have her say, and make the best sense he could of it. Thus, the second-floor tenants were named Bourniquel. The father was out of town, there were four children and a fifth expected, and they kept a maid.

The fifth-floor tenants were the Siveschis. Maigret had had his first taste of the family that morning, in the person of the fat and shameless Potsi. He had now also seen the skinny one, Nouchi.

“Their mother doesn’t believe in discipline. People like them don’t know about manners and dignity. Listen to this: Only last week, when I took up their mail, I knocked, as usual. Someone called out ‘Come in!’…I opened the door in all innocence, and what did I see? Madame Siveschi, stark naked, smoking a cigarette…She wasn’t even embarrassed. And her daughters were there with her in the room!”

“What is Monsieur Siveschi’s profession?”

“His profession! My poor dear sir, saving your presence! He comes and goes…He always has books under his arm…He’s the one who does the household shopping. He’s two quarters behind with the rent, but you won’t catch him hiding from the rent collector! Rather, he seems to look on his visits as something of a joke…Now, poor little Monsieur Legrand, Monsieur Gaston as I call him, he’s very different. He keeps the bicycle shop. A thoroughly honorable little man, who started life selling newspapers, and pulled himself up by his bootstraps…Sometimes he finds himself short at the end of the month, and, when that happens, I swear to you, he can scarcely look his neighbors in the face, not even me, although I…He’s been married barely three months and, to save paying rent for lodgings, they sleep at the back of the shop, all among the spare wheels and tires…Well, I never! I bet you that pest, Nouchi…”

It was Maigret who went to the door, having spotted a shadowy figure lurking outside. It was indeed the little Hungarian, with her big, dark eyes, and her mouth like a bleeding gash.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She replied, not in the least put out:

“I wanted to see you…I was told that the famous Chief Superintendent Maigret…”

She looked him straight in the eye. Although she was thin, with no hips to speak of, her breasts, by contrast, were well developed and pointed and accentuated by her dress, which was a size too small for her.

“Very well! Now you’ve seen me…”

“Don’t I get asked any questions?”

“Have you anything to tell me?”

“Maybe…”

Outraged, Madame “Saving-Your-Presence.” sighed and shook her head as vigorously as her stiff neck would permit.

“Come in…What’s all this about?”

Nouchi skipped into the lodge as though she belonged there. She was triumphant. Maybe someone had dared her to accost the Chief Superintendent.

“I wanted to tell you about Monsieur Dandurand…”

“Who’s he?” Maigret asked, turning to the concierge.

And she, indignant at the intrusion of Nouchi, expostulated:

“I don’t know what kind of a yarn she’s going to spin you, but I can tell you, saving your presence, that those kids will lie as soon as look at you…Monsieur Dandurand used to be a lawyer, a thoroughly respectable man, very sincere, quiet, and altogether…He occupies the whole of the fourth floor, and has done so for years. He goes out for all his meals. He never has any visitors. He’ll be back any moment now, I expect…”

“So what!” Nouchi stated coolly. “Monsieur Dandurand is an old pig…Whenever I come down the stairs, he’s watching behind his door. What’s more, he’s followed me into the street. Only last month, as I was passing his door, he signaled me to come in…”

Madame “Saving-Your-Presence.” held up her hands to the ceiling, as if to say:

“Do we have to listen to this depraved child?”

“Last Monday, I went in, just out of curiosity, and he offered to show me his photographs…It was really rather revolting. He told me that if I would come and visit him sometimes, he’d give me…”

“Don’t listen to her, Chief Superintendent.”

“I swear it’s the truth. I told Potsi about it the very first chance I got, and she went and had a look at the photographs, too. And he propositioned her as well.”

“What inducement did he offer?”

“Same as he offered me…a wrist watch. He must keep a stock of them…And I’ll tell you something else, too. One night, when I couldn’t get to sleep, I heard a noise on his landing. I got up, and went down and looked in through his keyhole, and I saw him…”

“Hold on,” interposed Maigret, “was the staircase light on?”

She was momentarily disconcerted. He could sense her hesitation.

“No,” she said at last. “But there was a moon.”

“How could the moon light the stairs?”

“Through the skylight. There’s a skylight just above the landing.”