Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987) (2 page)

The young woman was trying to fix her dress.

“Were you his mistress?”

A sullen glare at Maigret, while she hunted for a pin to fasten her strap.

“Had you a date with him tonight?”

“Eight o’clock at the Select…We were to dine together and go on to the theatre…”

“When he failed to turn up at eight o’clock, didn’t you telephone?”

“Yes. I was told the receiver had been left off the hook.”

They both caught sight of it simultaneously, on the desk. The man must have knocked it over as he fell forward.

Footsteps in the courtyard, where the slightest sounds were amplified that night as though under a sounding-board. The concierge called out from the threshold, so as not to see the corpse:

“Inspector, it’s the district police…”

She had no fondness for them. They came along, four or five of them, making no effort to conceal their presence. One of them was finishing a funny story. Another inquired, as he reached the office:

“Where’s the corpse?”

As the District Inspector was away, his clerk had replaced him, and Maigret was the more readily able to keep control of operations.

“Leave your men outside. I’m waiting for the Parquet. It’s better that the tenants should suspect nothing…”

And while the clerk was looking round the office, he turned to the young woman once more.

“What’s your name?”

“Nine…Nine Moinard, but I’m always called Nine…”

“Have you known Couchet a long time?”

“About six months…”

There was no need to ask her many questions. To watch her was enough. A pretty girl, still fairly inexperienced. She was obviously dressed by a good couturier. But her style of make-up, the way she held her bag and gloves and looked aggressively at people, betrayed the music-hall artist.

“A dancer?”

“I was at the Moulin Bleu…”

“And now?”

“I’m with him…”

She had not had time to weep. It had all happened too quickly and as yet she had not a very clear grasp of the true situation.

“Did he live with you?”

“Not really, as he’s married…But still…”

“Your address?”

“Hôtel Pigalle…Rue Pigalle…”

The clerk observed:

“They can’t talk of burglary, in any case.”

“Why?”

“Look. The safe’s behind him. It’s not locked, but the dead man’s back would stop anyone from opening the door.”

Nine, who had pulled a tiny handkerchief from her bag, was sniffling and dabbing her nostrils.

A minute later the atmosphere had changed. Cars braked outside, footsteps and voices rang out in the courtyard. Then there were handshakes, questions, noisy conversations. The Parquet people had come. The police doctor was examining the body and the photographers were setting up their cameras.

For Maigret this was a trying moment to be endured. He said the few things that had to be said, and then went down into the courtyard with his hands in his pockets, lit his pipe, and ran into somebody in the darkness. It was the concierge, who could not resign herself to letting strangers wander about in her house without finding out what they were up to.

“What’s your name?” Maigret asked her in a friendly tone.

“Madame Bourcier…Are those gentlemen going to stay much longer? Look, the light’s gone out in Madame de Saint-Marc’s room…She must have fallen asleep, poor thing…”

As he examined the house, the Inspector noticed another light, a cream-coloured curtain and behind it a woman’s silhouette. She was small and thin, like the concierge. Her voice could not be heard, but it was obvious that she was in a temper. Sometimes she stood stock still, staring at somebody who could not be seen. Then suddenly she would start talking and gesticulating, and would take a few steps forward.

“Who’s that?”

“Madame Martin…You saw her husband coming home just now…You know, the one who took up his dustbin…The official from Wills and Probate…”

“Do they often quarrel?”

“They don’t quarrel…She’s the one who does all the shouting…He daren’t even open his mouth…”

From time to time Maigret cast a glance into the office, where some ten men were bustling about. From the doorway, the examining magistrate called out to the concierge.

“Who’s in charge of the firm, after Monsieur Couchet?”

“The managing director, Monsieur Philippe. He lives not far away, in the Île Saint-Louis…”

“Is he on the telephone?”

“Surely…”

A man’s voice was heard telephoning. Upstairs, Madame Martin’s silhouette was no longer visible against the curtain. On the other hand, an odd-looking figure came down the stairs, crossed the courtyard stealthily, and made off down the street. Maigret recognized the bowler hat and buff overcoat of Monsieur Martin.

It was midnight. The gramophone-playing girls put out their light. Apart from the offices, the only room still lighted was the Saint-Marcs’ drawing-room on the first floor, where the former ambassador and the midwife were talking in low tones, amid a sickly hospital smell.

In spite of the lateness of the hour, Monsieur Philippe, when he appeared, was spick and span, his dark beard neat and trim, and grey suede gloves on his hands. He was a man of about forty, a typical serious, well-bred intellectual.

True, he was astonished and even shocked by the news. But there seemed a sort of reservation in his emotion.

“Considering the life he led…” he sighed.

“What sort of life?”

“I’m never going to say anything against Monsieur Couchet. In any case, there’s nothing to be said against him. He was free to do what he liked with his time.”

“One moment. Did Monsieur Couchet run the business himself?”

“Not even indirectly. He started it off, but once it had got going he left me entire responsibility. So much so that I sometimes didn’t see him for a fortnight. Only today, for instance, I waited for him till five o’clock. Tomorrow is pay-day. Monsieur Couchet was to bring me the necessary funds for the staff’s wages. About three hundred thousand francs. At five o’clock I had to go and I left him a report on his desk.”

It was found there, a typewritten sheet lying under the dead man’s hand. A routine report: proposals for increasing one clerk’s salary and dismissing one of the delivery-men, publicity plans for Latin-American countries…

“So that the three hundred thousand francs should be here?” asked Maigret.

“In the safe. The proof of that is that Monsieur Couchet had opened it. He and I were the only two who had the key and the combination…”

But in order to open the safe the body would have to be moved, and so they waited for the photographers to have completed their job. The police doctor made his statement. Couchet had been shot through the chest and, the aorta having been pierced, death had been instantaneous. The shot had probably been fired from about three yards. The bullet was of the commonest calibre: 6-mm 35.

Monsieur Philippe was explaining things to the examining magistrate.

“We only had our labs here in the Place des Vosges, they are behind this office.”

He opened a door, and disclosed a large room with a glazed roof where thousands of test-tubes stood in rows. Behind another door Maigret thought he heard a noise.

“What’s in there?”

“The guinea-pigs…And on the right are the typists’ and clerks’ offices…We have other buildings at Pantin, from which most of the stuff is sent out, for you know of course that Dr Rivière’s Serums are famous throughout the world…”

“Was it Couchet who put them on the market?”

“Yes. Dr Rivière had no money. Couchet financed his research. About ten years ago he set up a laboratory which wasn’t on the scale of this one…”

“Is Dr Rivière still in the business?”

“He died five years ago in a motor accident.”

Couchet’s body was taken away at last, and, when the door of the safe was opened, there were exclamations: all the money it contained had disappeared. Only business papers were left. Monsieur Philippe explained:

“There were not only the three hundred thousand francs that Monsieur Couchet must certainly have brought, but also sixty thousand francs that were paid in this morning, which I put in this pigeon-hole myself, with an elastic band round them.”

In the dead man’s wallet, nothing. Or rather, two tickets for a theatre near the Madeleine, at the sight of which Nine broke into sobs.

“They were for us…We were to have gone there together…”

Things were coming to an end. The confusion had increased. The photographers were folding up their ungainly camera-stands. The police doctor was washing his hands at a tap he had discovered in a closet and the examining magistrate’s clerk was showing signs of weariness.

For a few moments, however, in spite of all this agitation, Maigret had a kind of
tête – à – tête
with the dead man.

He was a plump, sturdy, shortish man: like Nine, he had probably never shed a certain vulgarity, in spite of his well-cut suit, his manicured nails, his hand-made silk shirt and underclothes.

His fair hair was thinning. His eyes must have been blue, with a somewhat childish expression.

“A real good sort.” a voice sighed behind Maigret.

It was Nine, tearful with emotion, calling Maigret to witness since she dared not address the more forbidding Parquet people.

“I give you my word, he was a real good sort. As soon as he thought something would make me happy…And not only me…Anybody…I never saw anyone tip the way he did…So that I used to scold him…I told him people took him for a sucker…Then he used to say: “What does it matter?””

The Inspector asked gravely:

“Was he usually cheerful?”

“Fairly cheerful…But not deep down…You understand? It’s hard to explain…He always had to be moving about and doing something…If he stayed still he grew gloomy or anxious…”

“His wife? ”

“I’ve seen her once in the distance…I’ve nothing to say against her…”

“Where did Couchet live?”

“Boulevard Haussmann…But most of the time he went to Meulan, where he’s got a villa…”

Maigret glanced round sharply and saw the concierge, who, not daring to come in, was making signs to him, looking unhappier than ever.

“I say…He’s coming down…”

“Who? ”

“Monsieur de Saint-Marc…He must have heard all the noise…Here he comes…Today of all days…Just think…”

The former ambassador, who was in his dressing-gown, seemed reluctant to come forward. He had recognized a police visit. Besides, the corpse on its stretcher had just passed close to him.

“What has happened?” he asked Maigret.

“A man’s been killed…Couchet, the owner of the Serum Laboratory…”

The Inspector had the impression that his interlocutor had been struck by a sudden thought, as though he had remembered something.

“You knew him?”

“No…That’s to say I’ve heard him spoken of…”

“And? ”

“Nothing. I don’t know anything…At what time was…?”

“The crime must have been committed between eight and nine o’clock…”

Monsieur de Saint-Marc sighed, smoothed his silvery hair, nodded to Maigret, and went off towards the staircase that led to his own flat.

The concierge had remained on one side. Then she had gone to speak to someone who was walking to and fro in the entrance-way, head bent. When she came back towards the Inspector he questioned her.

“Who’s that?”

“Monsieur Martin…He’s looking for a glove he lost…You see he never goes out without gloves, even to buy cigarettes over the way.”

Now, Monsieur Martin was prowling round the dustbins, striking a few matches, until at last he resignedly made his way upstairs again.

People were shaking hands with each other in the courtyard. The police were clearing out. The examining magistrate had a few words with Maigret.

“I’ll leave you to your job…Of course you’ll keep me informed…”

Monsieur Philippe, still as formal as a fashion plate, bowed to the Inspector.

“You don’t need me any longer?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow…I suppose you’ll be in your office? ”

“As usual…At nine o’clock precisely…”

And then there came a sudden moment of emotional tension, although not the slightest incident occurred. The courtyard was still immersed in shadow, save for its solitary lamp, the dusty bulb in the entrance.

Outside, the cars moved into gear and glided off over the asphalt, their headlamps for a moment lighting up the trees of the Place des Vosges.

The dead man was no longer there. The office seemed to have been ransacked. Nobody had thought of switching off the lights, and the laboratory was illuminated as though for intensive night work.

And here were the three of them together in the middle of the courtyard, three dissimilar beings who had not known one another an hour before and yet seemed bound together by some mysterious affinity.

Or rather, who were like the members of a family left behind, alone, after a funeral, when the outsiders have gone.

Such was the fleeting impression that struck Maigret as he looked, in turn, at Nine’s piquant face and the haggard features of the concierge.

“You’ve put your children to bed?”

“Yes…But they aren’t asleep…They’re anxious…they seem to feel…”

Madame Bourcier had a question to ask, a question she seemed almost ashamed of and yet which, for her, was all-important.

“D’you think…”

Her eyes roamed round the courtyard and seemed to linger over the darkened windows.

“…that…that it’s somebody from the house?”

And now she was staring at the entrance, at that broad porch whose door was always open – except after eleven at night – connecting the courtyard with the street, giving access to the building to all the unknown world outside.

Nine’s attitude, meanwhile, was one of restraint, and from time to time she cast a furtive glance at the Inspector.

“The investigation will probably provide the answer to your question, Madame Bourcier…For the time being, there’s just one thing that seems certain; the person who stole the three hundred and sixty thousand francs is not the same as the murderer…At least that’s probable, since Monsieur Couchet had his back against the safe…By the way, were the lights on in the laboratory this evening?”