Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987) (9 page)

“Yes…Let’s say that the incident, as you call it, occurred shortly after eight o’clock…But I don’t think it can be of the slightest interest. What is your opinion of the affair? For my own part I refuse to believe, as rumour apparently has it, that the crime was committed by one of the residents in the house…Remember that anybody can get into the courtyard…Actually I am going to ask the landlord to see that the main door is closed at dusk…”

Maigret had stood up.

“I have no opinion as yet.” he said.

The concierge was bringing the mail and, as the hall door had been left open, she suddenly caught sight of the Inspector closeted with Monsieur de Saint-Marc. Worthy Madame Bourcier. She was deeply upset. Her look betrayed worlds of anxiety.

Was Maigret going to have the impertinence to suspect the Saint-Marcs? Or even to bother them with his questions?

“Thank you, Monsieur…And please excuse me for paying this call…”

“Cigar?”

Monsieur de Saint-Marc was very much the aristocrat, with a slight touch of condescending familiarity which smacked of the politician rather than of the diplomat.

“I’m entirely at your disposal.”

The manservant closed the door. Maigret walked slowly down the stairs and found himself back in the courtyard, where the delivery man from some big store was looking in vain for the concierge.

In the lodge there were just a dog, a cat and the two children, busily smearing themselves with bread and milk.

“Is your mummy here?”

“She’s coming back, m’sieu. She’s gone up with the letters…”

In the less respectable corner of the courtyard, close to the lodge, were four galvanized iron bins where, when night fell, the tenants came one after the other to deposit their household rubbish.

At six in the morning the concierge opened the street door and the dustmen emptied the bins into their truck.

At night, this corner was always dark. The only lamp in the courtyard was on the other side, at the foot of the stairs.

What had Madame Martin come to look for, just about the time when Couchet was killed?

Had she, too, taken it into her head to hunt for her husband’s glove?

“No,” grunted Maigret, struck by a sudden recollection. “Martin didn’t bring down the rubbish till much later.”

What did it all mean, then? They couldn’t have lost a spoon. During the daytime, the tenants were not allowed to deposit anything whatsoever in the empty dustbins.

What had they been hunting for, one after the other?

Madame Martin had been rummaging in the dustbin itself.

And Martin had prowled round it, striking matches.

And next morning the glove had reappeared.

“Did you see the baby?” a voice said behind Maigret.

It was the concierge, speaking of the Saint-Marcs’ child with more emotion than of her own.

“You said nothing to madame, I hope? She mustn’t be told…”

“I know. I know.”

“About the wreath…I mean the tenants’ wreath…I wonder if it ought to be taken to the Couchets’ house today or if it’s the custom to leave it only at the time of the funeral…The staff have been very good too…They’ve collected more than three hundred francs…”

And, turning to a delivery man:

“Who’s it for?”

“Saint-Marc.”

“Right-hand staircase. First floor opposite…Mind you ring gently.”

Then, to Maigret:

“If you knew what a lot of flowers she gets. They really don’t know where to put them all. They’ve had to carry most of them up to the servants’ rooms…Won’t you come in? Jojo, will you please leave your sister alone? ”

The Inspector was still staring at the dustbins. What the deuce could the Martins have been hunting for?

“Do you put them out on the pavement in the mornings, according to the regulation?”

“No. Since I lost my husband, I can’t manage that. Or else I’d have to pay somebody, for they’re far too heavy for me…The dustmen are very obliging…I offer them a drink from time to time and they come in to collect the bins in the yard…”

“So that the ragmen don’t get a chance to rummage in them.”

“Don’t you believe that. They come into the courtyard too…There’s three or four of them sometimes, making no end of a mess…”

“Thank you very much.”

And Maigret went off, deep in thought, forgetting or not bothering to pay another visit to the office, as he had intended that morning.

When he reached the Quai des Orfèvres he was told:

“Somebody’s been asking for you on the phone. A Colonel…”

But he was still pursuing his train of thought. Opening the door of the detectives’ office he called out:

“Lucas. Will you set off immediately…You must question all the dustbin-rakers who usually operate in the neighbourhood of the Place des Vosges…If necessary you must go to the Saint-Denis works where the rubbish is burnt…”

“But…”

“We’ve got to find out if they noticed anything unusual in the dustbins of number 61 Place des Vosges the day before yesterday morning…”

He had let himself sink into his armchair and a word suddenly came back to him:
Colonel
…

What colonel? He didn’t know any colonels…

Yes, he did, though. There was one involved in the case. Madame Couchet’s uncle. What did he want?

“Hello…Elysée 17-62…Inspector Maigret speaking, Police Headquarters…What did you say? Colonel Dormoy wants to speak to me? Yes, I’m waiting…Hello. Is that Colonel Dormoy? What? A will? I can’t hear very well…No, on the contrary, speak a little softer…Not quite so close to the mouthpiece…That’s better…Well then? You’ve found an extraordinary will? And not even sealed? Right. I’ll be around in half an hour…No, I shan’t bother to take a taxi…”

And he lit his pipe, pushing back his armchair and crossing one leg over the other.

The Three Women

“T
he Colonel’s expecting you, in Monsieur Couchet’s room. If you’ll kindly follow me…”

The room where the body was lying was now shut. In the neighbouring room, which must have been Madame Couchet’s, someone was moving about. The maid opened a door and Maigret saw the Colonel standing beside the table, with his hand resting lightly on it, his chin in the air, as calm and dignified as if he were posing for a sculptor.

“Please sit down.”

Maigret, however, was not taken in; he remained standing and merely unfastened his heavy overcoat, put his bowler hat on a chair and filled his pipe.

“Was it you who found this will?” he asked, looking round the room with interest.

“I found it, this very morning. My niece does not know about it yet. I must say that it’s so outrageous…”

A funny kind of room, just like Couchet himself. Certainly the furniture was antique, as in the rest of the apartment. There were a few objects of value. But side by side with them were things that revealed the man’s simple tastes.

In front of the window, a table had done service as a desk. There were Turkish cigarettes, but also a whole row of those cherry-wood pipes that cost next to nothing, and which Couchet must have cherished as they matured.

A crimson dressing-gown, the most dazzling he could find. And then, at the foot of the bed, a pair of old slippers with worn-out soles.

There was a drawer in the table.

“You’ll notice that it was not locked,” the Colonel said. “I don’t even know if the key exists. This morning my niece needed some money to pay a tradesman and I wanted to save her the bother of writing a cheque. I had a look in this room. This is what I found…”

An envelope, headed:
Grand Hotel
. Writing paper to match, of a bluish shade.

Then some lines which seemed to have been scribbled down casually, like a rough draft:

This is my last will and testament
…Followed this unexpected sentence:

Since I shall probably forget to inquire about the laws of inheritance, I request my solicitor, Maître Dampierre, to see that my fortune is divided as equally as possible between the following
:

my wife Germaine
, née
Dormoy
,

my former wife, now Madame Martin, of 61 Place des Vosges
,

Nine Moinard, of Hôtel Pigalle, rue Pigalle
.

“What do you think of that?”

Maigret was delighted. This will was the finishing touch that endeared Couchet to him.

“Of course,” the Colonel went on, “this will won’t hold water. There are any number of points that make it invalid, and as soon as the funeral is over we shall contest it. But I thought it important and urgent to tell you about it, because…”

Maigret was still smiling, as if he had been witnessing an amusing practical joke. Even that Grand Hotel writing paper. Like many businessmen who have no office in the city centre, Couchet must have kept some of his appointments there. So, while waiting for somebody, no doubt, in the hall or in the smoking-room, he had picked up a writing pad and scribbled these few lines.

He hadn’t closed the envelope. He had flung the whole thing into his drawer, postponing to another time the task of drawing up a formal will.

This had happened a fortnight ago.

“You must have been struck by one really shocking feature,” the Colonel was saying. “Couchet quite forgets to mention his son. That detail alone is enough to invalidate the will and…”

“Do you know Roger?”

“Do I? No…”

And Maigret kept on smiling.

“I was just saying that if I asked you to come here it was because…”

“Do you know Nine Moinard?”

The poor man started back as if he’d had his foot trodden on.

“I don’t need to know her. Her address, rue Pigalle, is quite enough to tell me…But what was I saying? Oh yes. You saw the date of this will? It’s quite recent…Couchet died a fortnight after he’d written it…He was killed…Now suppose one of the two women mentioned here knew the terms of the will…I’ve every reason to think they’re not well off…”

“Why two women?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Three women. The will mentions three women. Couchet’s three wives, if you like.”

The Colonel concluded that Maigret must be joking.

“I was speaking seriously…” he said. “Don’t forget there is a dead man in this house. And that the future of a number of people is involved…”

Obviously. All the same, the Inspector felt like laughing. He could not have said why.

“Thank you for telling me about it…”

The Colonel was disappointed. He did not understand how so important an official as Maigret could take such an attitude.

“I suppose that…”

“Good-bye, Colonel Dormoy…Please give my regards to Madame Couchet…”

Out in the street, he could not resist muttering:

“That rascal Couchet.”

So coolly, in all seriousness, he had put down his three women in his will. Including the first, now Madame Martin, who was for ever confronting him with her contemptuous stare, like a living reproach. Including good little Nine, who did her best to cheer him up.

And on the other hand, he forgot that he had a son.

For quite a while, Maigret wondered to whom he should break the news first. To Madame Martin, who would leap out of her bed at the thought of such wealth? To Nine?

“Of course, they’ve not got the cash yet…”

The thing might drag out for ages. There would be a lawsuit. Madame Martin, in any case, would not give up readily.

“All the same, the Colonel behaved decently. He might have burned the will without anyone being the wiser…”

And Maigret stepped out briskly through the neighbourhood about the Place de l’Europe. Pale sunlight warmed the atmosphere; there was a touch of gaiety in the air.

“That rascal Couchet.”

He went into the lift in the Hôtel Pigalle without stopping at the desk, and a few minutes later was knocking at Nine’s door. There was a sound of footsteps inside. The door opened just enough to let through a hand, which remained outstretched in the space.

A woman’s hand, shrivelled with age. As Maigret did not move, the hand fluttered impatiently, the face of an elderly Englishwoman appeared above it and a long, incomprehensible speech ensued.

At least, Maigret guessed that the Englishwoman was expecting her mail, which accounted for her gesture. The obvious conclusion was that Nine no longer occupied the room, that she had probably left the hotel.

“Too dear for her.” he reflected.

And he paused, hesitating, before the neighbouring door. A manservant made up his mind for him, by asking suspiciously:

“What d’you want?”

“Monsieur Couchet…”

“Doesn’t he answer?”

“I haven’t knocked yet.”

And Maigret smiled once again. He was in a cheerful mood. That morning, he suddenly felt as if he were taking part in a practical joke. The whole of life was a joke. Couchet’s death was a practical joke, and above all that will of his.

“…C’me in.”

The bolt moved. The first thing Maigret did was to draw the curtains and open the windows a little.

Céline had not even woken up. Roger was rubbing his eyes and yawning:

“Oh, so it’s you…”

Things had improved. The room no longer smelt of ether. Clothes lay on the floor in a heap.

“…D’you want?”

He sat on his bed, took the glass of water from the bedside table and emptied it at one gulp.

“They’ve found the will.” announced Maigret, drawing the covers over Celine’s bare thigh as she lay curled up.

“Well, so what?”

Roger displayed no excitement; barely a touch of curiosity.

“Well, it’s a funny sort of will. It’ll certainly cause a lot of ink to be spilt and bring the lawyers a lot of money. Just fancy, your father has left his whole fortune to his three women.”

The young man made an effort to understand.

“His three…?”

“Yes. His present legal wife. And then your mother. And finally his girl-friend Nine, who only yesterday was living next door to you. He’s asked the lawyer to see that they each get an equal share…”

Roger was unmoved. He seemed to be thinking. But not to be thinking about anything that concerned him personally.

“That’s killing.” he said at last in a grave tone that contrasted with his words.