Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987) (3 page)

“Wait a minute…Yes, I believe so…But not as much as now…Monsieur Couchet must have switched on a light or two to go to the toilet, which is at the far end of the building…”

Maigret went in to turn off all the lights, while the concierge stayed in the doorway even though the body was no longer there. In the courtyard the Inspector found Nine waiting for him. He heard a sound somewhere over his head, the sound of something brushing against a window pane.

But all the windows were shut, all the lights out.

Somebody had moved, somebody was keeping watch in a darkened room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Madame Bourcier…I shall be here before the offices open…”

“I’m coming along with you. I’ve got to close the main door…”

Outside on the pavement, Nine commented:

“I thought you had a car.”

She seemed unwilling to leave him. Her eyes fixed on the ground, she added:

“Whereabouts do you live?”

“Quite close by, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.”

“The Metro’s closed, I suppose?”

“I should think so.”

“I’d like to tell you something…”

“I’m listening.”

She still dared not look at him. Behind them, they could hear the concierge bolting the door and then going back to her lodge. There was not a soul in the square. The fountains plashed musically. The town hall clock struck one.

“I know this must seem awful cheek…I don’t know what you’ll think of me…I told you Raymond was very generous…He had no sense of the value of money…He used to give me whatever I wanted…You understand? ”

“And so?”

“It’s ridiculous…I used to ask for as little as possible…I’d wait till it occurred to him…Besides, as he was nearly always with me, I was never short of anything…Tonight I was going to have dinner with him…Well…”

“You’re broke?”

“It’s not exactly that.” she protested. “It’s even stupider. I was going to have asked him for some money tonight. I paid a bill at midday…”

She was in agonies. She was watching Maigret closely, ready to draw back at the least hint of a smile.

“I’d never imagined he wouldn’t come…I still had a little money in my bag…While I was waiting for him at the Select I ate some oysters, and then some crayfish…I telephoned…And when I got here I realized I’d barely got enough to pay my taxi…”

“And at home?”

“I live in a hotel…”

“I’m asking you whether you’ve got any money put by…”

“Me?”

A nervous little laugh.

“Whatever for? Could I have known? Even if I had, I shouldn’t have wanted…”

Maigret heaved a sigh.

“Come with me as far as Boulevard Beaumarchais. That’s the only place you’ll find a taxi at this hour. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing…I…”

All the same, a shiver ran through her. It’s true that she was only wearing a silk dress.

“Hadn’t he made a will?”

“How should I know? D’you think one worries about things like that when everything’s going well? Raymond was a real good sort…I…”

She was weeping silently as she walked. The Inspector slipped a hundred-franc note into her hand, hailed a passing cab, and grunted, thrusting his hands into his pockets:

“I’ll see you tomorrow…You did say Hôtel Pigalle? ”

When he got into bed, Madame Maigret only woke up enough to murmur half-consciously: “I hope you’ve had some dinner?”

The Couple in the Hôtel Pigalle

W
hen he left home at eight o’clock next morning Maigret had three alternative tasks to choose from, all of which had to be performed that day: to revisit the premises in the Place des Vosges and question the staff; to pay a call on Madame Couchet, who had been informed of events by the local police; or, finally, to have another talk with Nine.

As soon as he woke he had rung up Police Headquarters, giving them a list of the tenants of the building and of everyone who was closely or remotely connected with the affair, and when he called in at his office he would find detailed information awaiting him.

The market was in full swing on the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. It was so cold that the Inspector turned up the velvet collar of his overcoat. The Place des Vosges was close by, but he would have to go there on foot.

However, a tram was passing bound for the Place Pigalle, and that decided Maigret’s course of action. He would see Nine first.

Of course, she wasn’t up. At the hotel desk he was recognized with some anxiety.

“She’s not mixed up in anything tiresome, I hope? Such a well-behaved girl.”

“Does she have many visitors?”

“Only her gentleman friend.”

“The old one or the young one?”

“She’s only got one. Neither old nor young…”

The hotel was a comfortable one, with a lift, and telephones in all the rooms. Maigret was deposited on the third floor, knocked at the door of number 27, and heard someone stirring in bed, then a voice mumble:

“What is it?”

“Open the door, Nine.”

A hand must have emerged from under the blankets and reached out to draw the bolt. Maigret entered the close, darkened room, caught sight of the young woman’s piquant face, and went to draw the curtains.

“What time is it?”

“Not yet nine o’clock…Don’t disturb yourself…”

She was screwing up her eyes against the harsh daylight. Under such conditions she was not pretty, and she looked more like a little country girl than a coquette. She passed her hand over her face two or three times, and ended by sitting in the bed propped against the pillow. At last she unhooked the telephone.

“Bring my breakfast, please.”

And to Maigret:

“What a business…You didn’t mind my cadging from you last night, did you? It’s so silly…I shall have to go and sell my jewellery…”

“Have you much?”

She pointed to the dressing table where, in an ashtray advertising somebody’s goods, there lay a few rings, a bracelet, a watch, the whole lot worth about five thousand francs.

Somebody was knocking at the door of the neighbouring room, and Nine listened attentively; a faint smile crossed her lips when she heard the knocking renewed insistently.

“Who is it?” asked Maigret.

“Next door? I don’t know. But if anyone’s able to wake them up at this hour of the morning…”

“What d’you mean?”

“Nothing. They never get up before four in the afternoon, if then.”

“Do they take dope?”

Her eyelashes fluttered affirmatively, but she hurriedly added:

“You’re not going to take advantage of my having told you, I hope?”

However, the door had eventually opened. So did Nine’s, and a maid brought in a tray with
café au lait
and croissants.

“You’ll excuse me?”

Her eyes were ringed, and her nightgown disclosed thin shoulders, and a small rather flaccid bosom like an under-grown schoolgirl’s. While she dipped pieces of croissant into her coffee she went on listening as if, in spite of everything, she was interested in what was happening next door.

“Am I involved in the business?” she asked none the less. “It would be tiresome if my name got into the papers. Especially for Madame Couchet…”

And as somebody was rapping a hasty low tattoo on the door, she called out:

“Come in.”

It was a woman of about thirty, who had slipped on a fur coat over her nightgown and whose feet were bare. She nearly beat a retreat on catching sight of Maigret’s broad back, then she plucked up courage and stammered:

“I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

The Inspector started when he heard that drawling voice, which seemed to issue with difficulty from a clogged mouth. He looked at the woman who was closing the door, and saw a colourless face with puffy eyelids. A quick glance from Nine confirmed his impression. This was undoubtedly the drug addict from next door.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Roger’s got a visitor. So I’ve taken the liberty…”

She sat down at the foot of the bed, in a daze, and sighed as Nine had done:

“But what time is it?”

“Nine o’clock.” said Maigret. “You look as if cocaine didn’t suit you.”

“It’s not cocaine…It’s ether…Roger says that it’s better and that…”

She was feeling cold. She moved to huddle over the radiator, and looked outside.

“It’s going to rain again…”

The whole scene was gloomy and despondent. There was a comb full of tangled hair on the dressing table. Nine’s stockings were lying on the floor.

“I’m disturbing you, aren’t I? But it’s important, apparently…It’s about Roger’s father, who’s dead…”

Maigret was looking at Nine and he noticed that she suddenly frowned as though some idea had struck her. At the same moment the woman who had just been speaking put her hand up to her chin reflectively, muttering to herself:

“Well, well.”

And the Inspector asked her:

“Did you know Roger’s father?”

“I’ve never seen him…But…wait a minute…I say, Nine, nothing’s happened to your friend, has it?”

Nine and the Inspector exchanged glances.

“Why?”

“I don’t know…I’m all in a muddle…I suddenly thought how Roger told me one day that his father visited somebody in the hotel…That amused him…But he preferred not to meet him, and once when somebody was coming up the stairs he hurried back into the bedroom…Now I’ve got the impression that this person came in here…”

Nine had stopped eating. She seemed encumbered by the tray on her knees, and her face betrayed anxiety.

“His son?” she said slowly, her gaze fixed on the window, a rectangle of glaucous light.

“But then…” the other woman exclaimed “…Then it’s your friend who’s dead…Apparently it was murder…”

“Is Roger’s name Couchet?” asked Maigret.

“Roger Couchet, yes.”

All three fell silent, ill at ease.

“What does he do?” the Inspector asked at last after a long pause, during which a murmur of voices could be heard from the neighbouring room.

“What d’you mean?”

“What’s his profession?”

And the young woman suddenly retorted:

“You’re police, aren’t you?”

She was agitated. Perhaps she was about to blame Nine for having led her into a trap.

“The Inspector’s very kind,” said Nine, putting one leg out of her bed and leaning over to pick up her stockings.

“I might have guessed it…But then you already knew before…before I came…”

“I had never heard of Roger.” said Maigret. “Now you’ll have to tell me a few things about him…”

“I don’t know anything…We’ve only been together about three weeks…”

“And before that?”

“He was with a tall redhead who calls herself a manicurist…”

“Does he work?”

That word was enough to make her embarrassment more obvious.

“I don’t know…”

“In other words, he does nothing…Is he well off? Does he spend his money freely?”

“No. We almost always eat at a cheap
prix-fixe
restaurant…six francs…”

“Does he often talk about his father?”

“He only mentioned him once to me, as I told you…”

“Will you tell me about the person who’s visiting him now? Had you met him before?”

“No. It’s a man…well, I don’t know how to describe him. I took him for a process-server and when I came in here, I thought that was it, and that Roger was in debt…”

“Is he well dressed?”

“Well…I saw a bowler hat, a fawn overcoat, gloves…”

There was a connecting door between the two rooms hidden by a curtain, and probably sealed up. Maigret could have put his ear to it and overheard everything, but he was reluctant to do so in front of the two women.

Nine got dressed: the only toilet she managed was dabbing her face with a wet cloth. She was on edge; her movements were jerky. Clearly, things had got beyond her, and she was expecting unrelieved disaster, lacking the strength to react, or even to try and understand.

The other was calmer, perhaps because she was still under the influence of ether, perhaps because she had more experience of this sort of thing.

“What’s your name?”

“Céline.”

“Have you a job?”

“I used to be a visiting hairdresser.”

“Is your name on the Vice Squad’s list?”

She shook her head, without indignation. And the mutter of voices could still be heard next door.

Nine, who had slipped on a dress, was looking round the room, and all of a sudden burst into tears, stammering:

“Oh God, oh God.”

“It’s a queer business,” Céline said slowly. “And if there’s really been a crime, we’re going to be in a mess…”

“Where were you at eight o’clock last night?”

She pondered. “Wait a minute…Eight o’clock…Why, I was at the Cyrano…”

“Was Roger with you?”

“No…We really can’t be together the whole time…I met him again at midnight at the
tabac
in the rue Fontaine…”

“Did he tell you where he’d been?”

“I didn’t ask him…”

Through the window Maigret could see the Place Pigalle, its tiny garden, the hoardings advertising nightclubs. Then suddenly he stood up and walked towards the door.

“Wait for me, both of you.”

And he went out, knocked at the neighbouring door and, without waiting, turned its handle.

A man in pyjamas was sitting in the only armchair in the room, which, in spite of the open window, was pervaded by a sickly smell of ether. Another man was walking about, gesticulating. It was Monsieur Martin, whom Maigret had met twice the night before, in the courtyard in the Place des Vosges.

“Well, so you’ve found your glove.”

And Maigret scrutinized the hands of the official from Wills and Probate, who turned so pale that the Inspector thought for one moment that he was going to faint. His lips were trembling. He tried in vain to speak.

“I…I…”

The young man in the chair was unshaven. His face was waxen, his eyes red-rimmed, his loose lips betrayed his weak character. He was greedily drinking water from the tooth-glass.

“Calm down, Monsieur Martin. I hadn’t expected to find you here, particularly at an hour when your office must have been open long ago.”

He was looking the fellow over from head to foot. He had to make an effort not to feel sorry for him, the wretched man seemed in such distress.