The Shadow Puppet (10 page)

‘I was particularly saddened by
this tragedy, which took place at a time of great emotion for me.'

‘I am aware of that.'

There was a little glint of satisfaction
in the eyes of the former ambassador. He was proud of having a child at his age.

‘May I ask you to keep your voice
down, as I'd rather keep this business from Madame de Saint-Marc. In her
condition, it would be unfortunate … But what was it you wanted to ask me?
I barely knew this Couchet. I'd caught a glimpse of him crossing the courtyard
a couple of times. He belonged to one of the clubs I go to occasionally, the
Haussmann, but he must rarely have set foot in the place. I just noticed his name in
the latest directory. I believe he was quite vulgar, wasn't he?'

‘In other
words, he was working-class. He had struggled to become successful.'

‘My wife told me he had married a
woman from a very good family, a former school friend of hers. That's one of
the reasons why it's better not to tell her … so, you wanted to ask
me …?'

The vast windows afforded a view of the
entire Place des Vosges bathed in soft sunshine. In the square, gardeners were
watering the lawns and flower beds. Drays plodded heavily past.

‘Just a simple question. I know
that you were on edge while your wife was in labour, which is only natural, and that
several times you came down and paced up and down the courtyard. Did you meet
anyone? Did you not see someone heading towards the offices at the back?'

Monsieur de Saint-Marc thought for a
moment, fiddling with a paper knife.

‘Wait … No! I
don't think so. Don't forget, I had other things on my mind. The
concierge would be in a better position to—'

‘The concierge doesn't know
anything—'

‘And
I … No! … Or rather … But it can't have anything
to do with—'

‘Tell me anyway.'

‘At one point, I heard a noise by
the dustbins. I was at a loose end, so I went over and I saw one of the residents
from the second floor—'

‘Madame Martin?'

‘I believe that's her name.
I confess, I don't know my
neighbours very well. She was rummaging in one of the
zinc bins … I remember her saying,
“One of our silver spoons
must have fallen into the rubbish bin.”
I asked
, “Have you
found it?”
And she said, quite excitedly,
“Yes!
Yes!”
'

‘Then what did she do?'
asked Maigret.

‘She hurried back up to her
apartment. She's a jittery little woman who always seems to be
running … If I recall, we lost a valuable ring in the same
manner … and the astonishing thing is that it was returned to the
concierge by a rag-picker who'd found it when he was rummaging with his
hook.'

‘You couldn't tell me
roughly what time this incident occurred?'

‘That would be
difficult … Wait … I didn't want any
dinner … But at around eight-thirty, Albert, my butler, urged me to have
something and, since I refused to come to the table, he brought me some anchovy
tarts in the drawing room. That was before—'

‘Before eight-thirty?'

‘Yes. Let us say that the
incident, as you call it, took place just after eight o'clock, but I
don't think it is of any significance whatsoever. What is your opinion about
this business? There's a rumour going around, apparently, that the murder was
committed by someone who lives here, but personally I refuse to believe it. When you
think that anyone can just walk into the courtyard. By the way, I'm going to
write to the landlord to request that the main door be locked at dusk.'

Maigret had risen.

‘I haven't yet formed an
opinion,' he said.

The concierge brought up the post and,
since the door
had remained open, she
suddenly caught sight of the inspector conversing with Monsieur de Saint-Marc.

Poor Madame Bourcier! She was all
flustered! Her expression betrayed a world of anxieties.

Would Maigret be so bold as to suspect
the Saint-Marcs? Or even simply to bother them with his questions?

‘Thank you,
monsieur … and please forgive my intrusion—'

‘A cigar?'

Monsieur de Saint-Marc had the airs of a
gentleman, with a tiny hint of condescending familiarity more suggestive of the
politician than the diplomat.

‘I am entirely at your
service.'

The butler closed the door behind him.
Maigret made his way slowly down the stairs and found himself in the courtyard where
the delivery man from a department store was trying to find the concierge.

In the lodge, there was only a dog, a
cat and the two children busy smearing milk soup all over their faces.

‘Isn't your mother
here?'

‘She'll be back,
m'sieur! She's taking the post up.'

In the ignominious corner of the
courtyard, near the lodge, there were four zinc bins into which, at night, the
residents came one by one to throw their household waste.

At six a.m., the concierge unlocked the
main door and the municipal rubbish collectors emptied the bins into their cart.

At night, that corner was not lit up.
The only light in the courtyard was on the other side, at the foot of the
stairs.

What had Madame
Martin come down to look for, more or less at the time when Couchet was killed?

Had she taken it into her head to look
for her husband's glove?

‘No!' grunted Maigret struck
by a memory. Martin had only brought the rubbish down much later.

So what had she been up to? There
couldn't have been a lost spoon! During the daytime, the residents are not
allowed to throw anything into the dustbins.

So what were the pair of them looking
for, one after the other?

Madame Martin had been rummaging in the
bin itself.

Martin, on the other hand, had been
looking in the area around the bins, striking matches.

And by the next morning, the glove had
been found!

‘Did you see the baby?'
asked a voice behind Maigret.

It was the concierge, who was talking
about the Saint-Marcs' child with more emotion than about her own.

‘You didn't say anything to
Madame, I hope? She mustn't be told—'

‘I know! I know!'

‘For the wreath … I mean
the residents' wreath … I'm wondering whether we should have
it delivered to the undertakers today or whether it's the custom only to send
it to the funeral … The staff were very generous too, they've
collected over three hundred francs.'

And, turning to the delivery man,
‘What is it?'

‘Saint-Marc!'

‘Right-hand staircase. First floor
facing. And knock gently!'

Then, to Maigret, ‘You should see
how many flowers
she's received! So
many they don't know where to put them all. Most of them have had to be taken
up to the servants' rooms. Won't you come in? Jojo! Leave your sister
alone!'

The inspector was still staring at the
dustbins. What on earth could the Martins have been looking for in them?

‘This morning, did you put the
bins out as usual?'

‘No! Since I've been
widowed, it's impossible! Or I'd have to take someone on, because
they're much too heavy for me … the bin men are very kind, I give
them a glass of wine from time to time and they come into the courtyard to collect
them.'

‘So the rag-pickers can't
rummage through them!'

‘Do you think so? They come into
the courtyard too. Sometimes there are three or four of them, and they make an
unholy mess.'

‘Thank you for your
help.'

And Maigret left, pondering, either
forgetting or not considering it worth his while to visit the Couchet offices again
as he had planned to do earlier in the day.

When he arrived at Quai des Orfèvres, he
was told, ‘Someone was asking for you on the telephone. A colonel.'

But he decided to pursue his hunch.
Opening the door of the inspectors' office, he called out, ‘Lucas! I
want you to get on to this straight away. Question all the rag-pickers who operate
around the Place des Vosges. If necessary, go as far as the Saint-Denis plant, where
the rubbish is incinerated.'

‘But—'

‘We need to know if they noticed
anything unusual in
the dustbins of 61,
Place des Vosges, the morning before yesterday.'

He slumped in his armchair and a word
came back into his mind: colonel.

What colonel? He didn't know any
colonels.

Oh yes he did! There was one colonel in
this case! Madame Couchet's uncle! What on earth did he want?

‘Hello! Élysée 1762? This is
Detective Chief Inspector Maigret from police headquarters … Excuse
me? … Colonel Dormoy wants to speak to me. I'll hold the line, yes.
Hello! Is that you, Colonel? … How? … A will? … I
can't hear you very well. No, on the contrary, lower your voice! Hold the
receiver a little further away. That's better. So? You have found a will that
no one knew about? And not even stamped? Understood! I'll be with you in half
an hour. No! There's no point my taking a taxi.'

And he lit his pipe, pushed back his
armchair and crossed his legs.

‘The colonel is waiting for you
in Monsieur's bedroom. Please follow me.'

The room where the body had been laid
out was closed. There was someone moving around next door, which must have been
Madame Couchet's bedroom. The maid opened a door and Maigret glimpsed the
colonel standing by the table, his hand resting lightly on it, his chin high,
dignified and calm as if he were posing for a sculptor.

‘Please sit down!'

Maigret ignored his invitation to sit
and simply unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, placed his bowler hat on a chair and
filled his pipe.

‘Did you find the will
yourself?' he then asked, looking about him with curiosity.

‘Indeed I did, earlier today. My
niece doesn't know about it yet. I have to say that it is so
shocking—'

A strange bedroom, typical of Couchet!
True, the furniture was period, like the rest of the apartment. There were a few
items of value, but mixed in with them were things that revealed the man's
vulgar tastes.

In front of the window was a table that
pretty much served as his desk. On it were Turkish cigarettes and also a whole set
of cheap, cherry-wood pipes which Couchet must have seasoned lovingly.

A purple dressing
gown! The gaudiest he could have found! Then, at the foot of the bed, slippers with
holes in their soles.

The table had a drawer.

‘Note that it wasn't
locked!' said the colonel. ‘I don't even know if there is a key.
This morning, my niece needed cash to pay a supplier and I wanted to save her the
trouble of writing a cheque. I searched this room, and this is what I came
across.'

An envelope with the
Grand-Hôtel
crest. Pale blue notepaper with the same letterhead.

Then a few lines that appeared to have
been written distractedly, like a rough draft.

This is my last will and testament …

And further down, these surprising
words:

Since I shall probably not get around to finding out about inheritance law,
I instruct my lawyer, Maître Dampierre, to do his utmost to ensure that my
fortune is shared as equally as possible between:

1 My wife Germaine, née Dormoy;

2 My first wife, now Madame Martin, residing at 61, Place des Vosges;

3 Nine Moinard, residing at
Hôtel Pigalle, Rue Pigalle
.

‘What do you make of
that?'

Maigret was
jubilant. This will endeared Couchet to him even further.

‘Naturally,' continued the
colonel, ‘this will does not hold water. There are numerous reasons why it
would be deemed null and void and, immediately after the funeral, we intend to
contest it. But the reason I felt it was useful and urgent to discuss it with you is
that—'

Maigret was still smiling, as if he had
witnessed a good prank. Even the Grand-Hôtel letterhead! Like many businessmen,
Couchet probably held some of his meetings there. So, while waiting for someone,
probably, in the lobby or the smoking room, he had picked up a blotter and scribbled
those few lines.

He hadn't sealed the envelope!
He'd stuffed the whole thing in his drawer, postponing the business of having
a proper will drawn up.

That had been two weeks ago.

‘You must have been struck by one
outrageous detail,' the colonel was saying. ‘Couchet simply
doesn't mention his son! That alone is enough to render the will null and void
and—'