Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987) (8 page)

Monsieur Martin shrank back, looking resigned. Resigned to letting the untidiness of his home be seen. Resigned to showing himself in a state of undress, with his moustache drooping and greenish, which indicated that it was usually dyed.

He had stayed up all night. He was exhausted, incapable of any further response.

He went on tiptoe to close the bedroom door, which had disclosed the end of the bed and a basin standing on the floor.

“Did the concierge tell you?”

He was whispering, casting anxious glances at the door. At the same time he turned off the gas, on which he had been heating up some coffee.

“A small cup?”

“No, thank you…I’m not going to bother you for long…I wanted to ask after Madame Martin…”

“It’s too kind of you.” Martin said with conviction.

He was really quite unsuspecting. He was so upset that he must have lost his critical sense. And indeed, had he ever had it?

“They’re terrible, these attacks of hers…You don’t mind if I drink my coffee? ”

He became confused on discovering that his braces were dangling about his legs, hastily put his clothes to rights, and cleared the table of several medicine bottles.

“Does Madame Martin have them often?”

“No…Specially not such violent ones…She’s very highly strung…When she was a girl, I gather she used to have fits of hysteria every week…”

“Does she still now?”

Martin gave him a hangdog look, and scarcely dared confess:

“I have to be very tactful with her…The slightest contradiction sets her all in a flutter…”

With his buff-coloured overcoat, his well-waxed moustache, his leather gloves, he had chiefly looked ridiculous. The caricature of a pretentious little jack-in-office.

But now his whiskers were faded and there were bags under his eyes. He had not had time to wash. He was still wearing his nightshirt under an old jacket. And he was a pathetic figure. One realized with amazement that he was at least fifty-five years old.

“Did anything upset her, last night?”

“No…no…”

He was panic-stricken, darting terrified glances all around him.

“She had no visitors? Her son, for instance? ”

“No…You came…Then we had dinner…Then…”

“What?”

“Nothing…I don’t know…It came on without warning…She’s very sensitive…She’s had so much unhappiness in her life.”

Did he really believe what he was saying? Maigret had the impression that Martin was talking in order to convince himself.

“In short, you’ve no personal opinion about this crime?”

And Martin dropped the cup he was holding. Could he, too, be suffering from over-sensitive nerves?

“Why should I have an opinion? I give you my word…If I had one, I’d…”

“You would?”

“I don’t know…It’s terrible…And just when we’ve most work on at the office…I haven’t even had time to let my boss know this morning…”

He passed his lean hand across his forehead, then set about picking up the pieces of china. He spent a long time hunting for a cloth to wipe the floor.

“If she’d listened to me, we’d never have stayed on in this house…”

He was frightened, that was obvious. He was convulsed with fear. But fear of what, fear of whom?

“You’re a good fellow, aren’t you, Monsieur Martin? And an honest fellow…”

“I’ve been in the service thirty-two years and…”

“So, if you knew something that might help the law to discover the criminal, you’d make it your duty to tell me…”

Weren’t his teeth beginning to chatter?

“I’d certainly tell you…But I don’t know anything…And I should like to know, myself…This is no sort of life…”

“What do you think of your stepson?”

Martin looked at Maigret in astonishment.

“Roger? He’s…”

“He’s misguided, I think.”

“But he’s not a bad boy, I give you my word…It’s all his father’s fault…As my wife always says, young men ought not to be given so much money…She’s quite right. And I agree with her that Couchet didn’t do it out of kindness nor out of love for his son, who meant nothing to him…He did it to clear his own conscience…”

“His conscience? ”

Martin blushed, more embarrassed than ever.

“He’d behaved badly towards Juliette, hadn’t he?” he said in a low voice.

“Juliette?”

“My wife…His first wife…What did he ever do for her? Not a thing…He treated her like a servant…And yet it was she who helped him through difficult times…And later on…”

“He gave her nothing, that’s quite true…But she’d married again…”

Martin’s face was crimson. Maigret was looking at him with amazement and pity. For he realized that the poor fellow was in no way responsible for this extraordinary theory. He was merely repeating what he must have heard his wife say a hundred times.

Couchet was rich, she was poor…And so…

But the little official had pricked up his ears.

“Didn’t you hear something?”

They kept quiet for a moment. A faint call could be heard from the next room. Martin went to open the door.

“What are you telling him?” Madame Martin demanded.

“Well…I…”

“It’s the Inspector, isn’t it? What does he want this time? ”

Maigret could not see her. The voice was that of somebody lying down, very weary, but none the less completely self-possessed.

“The Inspector called to ask after you…”

“Tell him to come in…Wait a minute. Give me a damp face-cloth and the mirror. And my comb…”

“You’re going to upset yourself again…”

“Hold the mirror straight, can’t you…No. Leave go of it…You’re incapable of…Take away that basin…Oh, men…When a woman’s not around, the place looks like a pigsty…Bring him in now.”

The bedroom was like the dining-room, drab and dreary, badly furnished, with a lot of old curtains, old covers, faded carpets. As soon as he set foot in the doorway, Maigret felt Madame Martin’s gaze fixed on him, calm and extraordinarily lucid.

He saw a sickly invalid’s smile appear on her haggard face.

“Don’t take any notice,” she said. “Everything’s in a frightful mess. It’s because of this attack…”

And she stared sadly in front of her.

“But I’m getting better…I’ve got to be well tomorrow, for the funeral…It is tomorrow, isn’t it? ”

“Yes, it’s tomorrow. Do you often get these attacks? ”

“I had them when I was a child…But my sister…”

“You have a sister?”

“I had two…Don’t go imagining things…The younger had attacks too…She got married…Her husband was a bad lot and one fine day he took advantage of one of these attacks to have her shut up…She died a week later…”

“Don’t get upset.” begged Martin. He didn’t know which way to turn or where to look.

“She’d gone out of her mind?” asked Maigret.

And the woman’s features hardened again, her voice grew spiteful.

“That’s to say her husband wanted to get rid of her…Less than six months later, he married someone else…And men are all the same…You sacrifice yourself, you work yourself to death for them…”

“Please…” her husband sighed.

“I’m not talking about you. Although you’re no better than all the rest…”

And Maigret, suddenly, sensed currents of hatred in the air. The moment was brief. It was nothing definite. And yet he was sure that he was not mistaken.

“All the same, if I’d not been there…” she went on.

Wasn’t there a threatening note in her voice? The man was fluttering aimlessly. To hide his confusion, he measured out drops of medicine, letting them fall one by one into a glass.

“The doctor said…”

“I don’t care what the doctor said.”

“But you must…Here…Drink it slowly…It’s not bad…”

She looked at him, then she looked at Maigret, and at last she drank, with a resigned shrug of the shoulders.

“Did you really come just to inquire after me?” she asked suspiciously.

“I was on my way to the laboratory when the concierge told me…”

“Have you found out anything?”

“Not yet…”

She closed her eyes to indicate her weariness. Martin looked at Maigret, who got up.

“Well. I hope you’ll soon be recovered…You’re getting better already…”

She let him go. Maigret stopped Martin from showing him out.

“Stay with her, please.”

Poor fellow. He seemed to be afraid of staying, to be hanging on to the Inspector because, when a third person was there, it was not so bad.

“You’ll see, she’ll soon be all right…”

As he was crossing the dining-room he heard a gliding step in the passage. And he caught up with old Mathilde, just as she was about to go into her own room.

“Good morning, madame…”

She gave him a frightened look, making no reply, her hand on the door handle.

Maigret had lowered his voice. He guessed that Madame Martin was listening eagerly, quite capable of getting up to eavesdrop herself.

“As you probably know, I’m the Inspector in charge of the investigation…”

He had already guessed that he would get nothing out of this woman, whose face was so placid that it looked like a full moon.

“What do you want?”

“Merely to ask you if you’ve anything to tell me…How long have you lived in this house?”

“Forty years.” she replied curtly.

“You know everybody…”

“I don’t talk to anybody.”

“I thought you might perhaps have seen or heard something…Sometimes a tiny hint is enough to put the law on the right track…”

Someone was moving about inside the room. But the old woman kept the door stubbornly shut.

“You’ve not seen anything? ”

She made no reply.

“And you’ve not heard anything? ”

“You’d do better to ask the landlord to fix me up with gas…”

“Gas?”

“They’ve got it in the rest of the house…But because he’s not entitled to raise my rent he won’t let me have it…He’d like to throw me out…He does all he can to get rid of me…But he’ll go out before me, and he’ll go out feet first…You can tell him that from me…”

The door opened so slightly that it seemed impossible that the fat old woman could slip through the crack. Then it closed again, and there were only muffled sounds inside the room.

“Have you your card?”

The manservant in his striped waistcoat took the visiting card that Maigret proffered and disappeared into the flat, which was amazingly light, thanks to the fifteen-feet-tall windows that are only to be seen nowadays in houses in the Place des Vosges and the Île Saint-Louis.

The rooms were immense. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner was purring. A nurse in a white overall, with a pretty blue veil on her head, kept going from one room to another and casting curious glances at the visitor.

A voice, close by.

“Ask the Inspector to come in…”

Monsieur de Saint-Marc was in his study, wearing a dressing-gown, his silvery hair neatly smoothed. First he went to close a door through which Maigret had time to glimpse a fine old bed, with a young woman’s head on the pillow.

“Sit down, please…Of course, you want to speak to me about that dreadful Couchet affair? ”

Despite his age he gave an impression of health and vigour. And the atmosphere of the flat was that of a happy home, where everything is bright and cheerful.

“The tragedy affected me the more especially, as it coincided with a great emotional experience…”

“I’ve heard about it…”

There was a slight flicker of pride in the eyes of the former ambassador. He was proud of having a child at his age.

“I’ll ask you to speak softly, for I’d rather keep the story from Madame de Saint-Marc…In her condition, it would be a pity…But in fact, what do you want to ask me? I scarcely knew the man Couchet…I caught sight of him once or twice as I went through the courtyard…He belonged to one of the clubs I go to occasionally, the Haussmann. But I don’t think he often set foot in it…I merely noticed his name in the latest members’ list…I believe he was rather a common person, wasn’t he? ”

“Well, his origins were pretty humble…He’d had quite a struggle to get where he did…”

“My wife told me that he’d married a young woman of very good family, an old schoolfellow of hers…That’s one of the reasons why she’d better not be told about it…Well then, you wanted? ”

The great windows overlooked the Place des Vosges, brightened by a light burst of sunshine. In the square, gardeners were watering the lawns and flowerbeds. Vans were passing by, drawn by heavy-footed horses.

“A simple piece of information…I know that, in your quite natural state of anxiety at waiting for things, you paced up and down the courtyard many times…Did you meet anyone? Didn’t you see anyone going towards the offices at the far end of the courtyard? ”

Monsieur de Saint-Marc pondered, while he fingered a paperknife.

“Wait a minute…No. I don’t think so…I must admit that I had other things on my mind…The concierge would be better able to…”

“The concierge knows nothing…”

“And I myself…No…Or rather…But there can’t be any connexion…”

“Tell me all the same.”

“At a certain moment I heard a noise by the dustbins…I was feeling at a loose end…I went over and saw a woman who lives on the second floor…”

“Madame Martin?”

“I believe that is her name…I must confess that I’m not well acquainted with my neighbours…She was rummaging in one of the galvanized-iron bins…I remember she said to me: ‘A silver spoon dropped into the rubbish by mistake…’ I asked her: ‘Have you found it?’ And she answered, rather quickly: ‘Yes, yes…’”

“What did she do next?” asked Maigret.

“She hurried back to her own flat…She’s a restless little person who’s always bustling about…If I remember about it, it’s because we once lost a valuable ring that way…And the point is that it was brought back to the concierge by a ragman who found it while poking about with his hook…”

“Can you give me any idea when this incident took place?”

“That’s difficult…Wait a minute…I didn’t feel like eating dinner…But about half past eight Albert, my manservant, begged me to take something…And as I refused to sit down to table, he brought me some anchovy patties in the drawing-room…It was before…”

“Before half past eight?”