The Shadow Puppet (11 page)

‘Do you know Roger?'

‘Me? … No.'

And Maigret was still smiling.

‘I was saying earlier that if I
asked you to come here, it was because—'

‘Do you know Nine
Moinard?'

The poor man jumped as if someone had
stepped on his toe.

‘I
don't need to know her. Her address alone, Rue Pigalle, gives me an idea
of … Now what was I saying? … Oh yes! Did you notice the date on
the will? It is recent! Couchet died two weeks after writing it. He was murdered!
Now imagine that one of the two women concerned was aware of these
provisions … I have every reason to believe that neither of them is
rich.'

‘Why two women?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Three women! The will names three
women! Couchet's three women, if you like!'

The colonel assumed that Maigret was
joking.

‘I was being serious,' he
said. ‘Don't forget that there is a dead man in the house. And that this
affects the future of several people.'

Of course. All the same, Maigret felt
like laughing. He himself couldn't have said why.

‘Thank you for letting me
know.'

The colonel was vexed. He could not
understand this attitude on the part of a police inspector of Maigret's senior
rank.

‘I suppose—'

‘Goodbye, Colonel. Kindly pay my
respects to Madame Couchet.'

In the street, he couldn't help
muttering, ‘Good old Couchet!'

Coldly, just like that, in complete
seriousness, he had put his three women in his will! Including his first wife, now
Madame Martin, who was constantly appearing in
front of him with her contemptuous gaze, like a living
reproof! Including courageous little Nine, who did everything she could to entertain
him.

On the other hand, he had forgotten that
he had a son!

For a good few minutes, Maigret wondered
whom to tell first. Madame Martin, who would probably leap out of her bed at the
news of a fortune? Or Nine?

‘But they haven't got their
hands on the cash yet.'

This business could go on for years! The
family would contest the will. Madame Martin, in any case, wouldn't allow them
to push her around.

‘Even so, the colonel has been
honest. He could have burned the will and no one would ever have known.'

And a light-hearted Maigret crossed the
Europe district on foot. A wan sun gave out a little warmth and there was joy in the
air.

‘Good old Couchet!'

He entered the lift of Hôtel Pigalle
without announcing himself and a few moments later he was knocking at Nine's
door. He heard footsteps inside the room. The door opened a fraction, just enough
for a hand to poke through. The hand remained dangling in the air.

A woman's hand, already wrinkled.
Since Maigret didn't respond, the hand grew impatient and the face of an
elderly Englishwoman appeared. She launched into an unintelligible tirade.

Or rather, Maigret guessed that the
Englishwoman was expecting her post, which explained the outstretched hand. What was
clear was that Nine no longer occupied her room and that she probably didn't
live in the hotel any more.

‘Too
expensive for her,' he thought.

And he paused uncertainly outside the
neighbouring door. A valet decided him, asking him suspiciously, ‘Can I help
you?'

‘Monsieur Couchet—'

‘Is he not answering?'

‘I haven't knocked
yet.'

And Maigret was still smiling. He was in
a buoyant mood. That morning, he suddenly felt as if he were playing a part in a
farce. Life itself was a farce! Couchet's death was a farce, especially his
will!

‘… C'min!'

The bolt slid back. The first thing
Maigret did was to march over and draw the curtains and open the window.

Céline had not even woken up. Roger
rubbed his eyes and yawned, ‘Oh! It's you.'

There was an improvement: the room
didn't reek of ether. The clothes were in a heap on the floor.

‘… What d'you
want?'

Roger sat up in bed, picked up the glass
of water from his bedside table and drained it in one go.

‘The will has been found!'
announced Maigret covering up a naked thigh belonging to Céline, who was lying
curled up.

‘So what?'

Roger showed no excitement. Barely a
vague curiosity.

‘So what? It's a strange
will! It will certainly cause much ink to flow and earn the lawyers a lot of money.
Can you imagine, your father has left his entire fortune to his three
women!'

The young man
struggled to understand.

‘His three …?'

‘Yes! His current lawful wife.
Then your mother! And lastly his girlfriend Nine, who was living in the room next
door till yesterday! He has instructed the lawyer to ensure they each receive an
equal share.'

Roger didn't bat an eyelid. He
appeared to be thinking. But not to be thinking about something that concerned him
personally.

‘That's priceless!' he
said at length in a serious tone that belied his words.

‘That's exactly what I said
to the colonel.'

‘What colonel?'

‘An uncle of Madame
Couchet's. He's playing the head of the family.'

‘I bet he's not
happy!'

‘Too right!'

The young man thrust his legs out of the
bed and grabbed a pair of trousers draped over the back of a chair.

‘You don't seem particularly
bothered by this news.'

‘Oh me, you know …'

He buttoned up his trousers, looked for
a comb and closed the window, which was letting in the cold air.

‘Don't you need
money?'

Maigret was suddenly solemn. His gaze
became probing, questioning.

‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know whether you
need money?'

Roger darted Maigret a shifty look and
Maigret felt ill at ease.

‘I
don't give a —!'

‘It's not as if you are
earning a good living.'

‘I don't earn a
bean!'

He yawned and looked mournfully at his
reflection in the mirror. Maigret noticed that Céline had woken up. She didn't
move. She must have overheard some of the conversation, for she was watching the two
men with curiosity.

She too needed the glass of water! And
the atmosphere in that untidy room, with its stale smell, those two listless beings,
was the quintessence of a dispirited world.

‘Do you have any
savings?'

Roger was beginning to tire of this
conversation. He looked around for his jacket, took out a slim wallet embossed with
his initials and threw it to Maigret.

‘Have a look!'

Two 100-franc notes, a few smaller ones,
a driving licence and an old cloakroom ticket.

‘What do you intend to do if you
are deprived of your inheritance?'

‘I don't want any
inheritance!'

‘You won't contest the
will?'

‘No!'

That was strange. Maigret, who had been
staring at the carpet, looked up.

‘Three hundred and sixty thousand
francs are enough for you?'

Then the young man's attitude
changed. He walked over to the inspector, stopped within inches of him, at the
point where their shoulders were
touching. And, his fists clenched, he snarled, ‘Say that again!'

At that moment, there was something
thuggish about him, A coarse air, the scent of the café brawl.

‘I'm asking you if
Couchet's 360,000 francs are—'

He just managed to grab Roger's
arm in mid-air. Otherwise he would have received one of the biggest punches of his
life!

‘Calm down!'

But Roger was calm! He wasn't
struggling! He was pale. He stared fixedly. He was waiting until the inspector was
prepared to release him.

Was it to strike again? Meanwhile,
Céline had jumped out of bed, despite being half-naked. Maigret could sense she was
about to open the door to call for help.

Everything happened peacefully. Maigret
only held on to Roger's wrist for a few seconds, and when he gave him back his
freedom of movement, the young man did not move.

There was a long silence. It was as if
each one of them was afraid to break it, the way, in a fight, each opponent is
reluctant to deliver the first punch.

Finally it was Roger who spoke.

‘You've got to be
kidding!'

He picked up a mauve dressing gown from
the floor and threw it over to his companion.

‘Do you want to tell me what you
plan to do, once you've spent your 200 francs?'

‘What have I done until
now?'

‘There's just one little
difference: your father's dead and you can no longer sponge off
him.'

Roger shrugged as
if to say that Maigret had got the wrong end of the stick.

There was an indefinable atmosphere, not
exactly of drama, but something else – a poignancy perhaps, a bohemian atmosphere
but devoid of poetry. Perhaps it was the sight of the wallet and the two 100-franc
notes? Or was it the anxious woman, who had just realized that tomorrow would not be
like the previous days, that she'd have to find a new source of support?

But no! It was Roger himself who was
frightening. Because his behaviour and actions were out of character, contradicting
what Maigret knew of his past.

His calmness … and it
wasn't an act! He was truly calm, calm like someone who—

‘Give me your gun!' suddenly
commanded the chief inspector.

The young man pulled it out of his
trouser pocket and proffered it with the ghost of a smile.

‘Promise me
you'll—'

He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw
the woman about to scream in terror. She couldn't grasp what was going on, but
she knew it was something very bad.

Irony, in Roger's eyes.

Maigret almost ran out of the room.
Having nothing further to say, no gesture to make, he beat a retreat, banging into
the door frame on his way out and stifling a curse.

Back in the street, his cheery mood of
that morning had dissipated. He no longer found life a joke. He looked up at the
couple's window. It was closed. You couldn't see a thing.

He was uneasy, as
one is when nothing makes sense any more.

Roger had given him two or three
looks … He couldn't have explained it, but they were not the looks
he was expecting. They were looks that were somehow at odds with the rest.

He retraced his steps, because he had
forgotten to ask at the hotel for Nine's new address.

‘Don't know!' said the
porter. ‘She paid for her room and left carrying her suitcase! Didn't
need a taxi. She must have gone to the cheapest hotel around here.'

‘Look, if … if anything
were to happen here … Yes … something
unexpected … would you kindly inform me personally at police headquarters?
Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.'

He was annoyed at himself for having
said that. What could happen? Even so he recalled the two 100-franc notes in
Roger's wallet and Céline's look of fear.

A quarter of an hour later, he entered
the Moulin Bleu via the stage door. The auditorium was empty, dark, the seats and
the sides of the boxes covered in glossy green silk fabric.

On the stage, six women, shivering
despite their coats, were repeatedly rehearsing the same step – ‘a
ridiculously easy step' – while a short, pudgy man bellowed a tune at the top
of his lungs.

‘One! … Two! … Tra la la
la … No! … Tra la la la … Three! … Three,
for heaven's sake!'

Nine was the second woman in the line.
She recognized
Maigret, who was standing
by a column. The man had spotted him too, but he wasn't bothered.

‘One! … Two! … Tra la la—'

It went on for fifteen minutes. It was
colder in here than outside and Maigret's feet were frozen. At last the squat
man wiped his forehead and cursed his dancers by way of a farewell.

‘Come to see me?' he yelled
at Maigret from a distance.

‘No! … I've come
to see—'

Nine walked over, embarrassed, wondering
whether she should hold out her hand to the inspector.

‘I have some important news for
you—'

‘Not here … We're
not allowed to have visitors at the theatre … Except in the evenings,
because they have to pay.'

They sat at a pedestal table in a little
bar next door.

‘They've found
Couchet's will. He left his fortune to three women.'

She looked at him in amazement, without
suspecting the truth.

‘First of all, his first wife,
even though she's remarried, then his second wife … And then
you.'

She continued to stare at Maigret, who
saw her pupils dilate and then mist over.

And finally she buried her face in her
hands to cry.