The Shadow Puppet (15 page)

And eventually it happened: an
indescribable voice, which Madame Martin herself would probably not have
recognized.

‘It's me—'

And Maigret still didn't say a
word. His pupils seemed to say, ‘Really?'

‘I … I was hoping to
make it across the border—'

There is a way of smoking that is
aggravating for the person watching the smoker: with each puff, his lips part
sensuously, making a little ‘puk' sound. And the smoke isn't
puffed out in front, but escapes slowly and forms a cloud around his face.

Maigret smoked
like this and his head nodded from right to left and left to right to the rhythm of
the train.

Martin leaned forward, his hands hurting
inside his gloves, his eyes feverish.

‘Do you think it'll be
long? … It won't, will it? Because I confess … I confess
everything—'

How did he manage to hold back his sobs?
His nerves must have been utterly frayed. And his eyes, from time to time, were
beseeching Maigret: ‘Please help me! … You can see that I have no
strength left.'

But the chief inspector did not budge.
He was as calm, with the same curious, detached gaze as if he were in front of an
exotic animal's cage at the zoological gardens.

‘Couchet caught
me … So—'

And Maigret sighed. A sigh that meant
nothing, or rather that could be interpreted in a hundred different ways.

Saint-Quentin! Footsteps in the
corridor. A portly passenger tried to open the door of the compartment, realized it
was locked, stood there for a moment looking in, his nose pressed to the pane, and
then finally resigned himself to looking for another seat.

‘Because I confess everything, you
see? There's no point denying—'

Exactly as if he had spoken to a deaf
man, or to a man who did not understand a wretched word of French. Maigret filled
his pipe, meticulously tapping it with his index finger.

‘Do you have any
matches?'

‘No … I don't smoke, as you know very well. My wife
doesn't like the smell of tobacco. I want it to be done quickly, do you
understand? I'll say so to the lawyer that I'll have to choose. No
complications! I confess everything. I read in the paper that some of the
money's been found. I don't know why I did that. I could feel it in my
pocket and I had the impression that everyone in the street was looking at me. At
first I thought of hiding it somewhere, but to do what with it?

‘I walked along the embankment.
There were barges. I was afraid of being seen by a bargeman. So I crossed the
Pont-Marie and was able to get rid of the bundle on the Ile Saint-Louis.'

The compartment was boiling hot;
condensation ran down the windows, pipe smoke curled around the lamp.

‘I should have confessed
everything to you the first time I saw you. I didn't have the courage. I hoped
that—'

Martin fell silent and stared curiously
at his companion, who had half-opened his mouth and closed his eyes. His breathing
was regular like the purring of a fat, satiated cat.

Maigret was asleep!

Martin glanced over at the door, which
only needed a push. And, as if to avoid the temptation, he huddled in a corner,
clenching his buttocks, his twitching hands resting on his scrawny knees.

Gare du Nord. A grey morning. And the
herd of commuters, still drowsy, streaming out.

The train had
stopped a long way from the concourse. The suitcases were heavy. Martin didn't
want to stop. He was out of breath and his arms hurt.

They had to wait a long time for a
taxi.

‘Are you taking me to
prison?'

They had spent five hours on trains and
Maigret hadn't uttered ten sentences. If that! Words that had nothing to do
either with the murder or with the 360,000 francs. He had talked about his pipe, or
the heat, or the arrival time.

‘Sixty-one, Place des
Vosges!' he instructed the driver.

Martin implored him, ‘Do you think
it's necessary to—?'

And to himself, ‘What must they be
thinking at the office! There wasn't time to let them know—'

The concierge was in her lodge, sorting
out the post: a huge pile of letters for Doctor Rivière's Serums. A tiny pile
for the rest of the residents.

‘Monsieur Martin! Monsieur Martin!
Someone came from the Registry Office to see if you were ill … Apparently
you've got the key to—'

Maigret dragged his companion away. And
Martin had to lug his heavy suitcases up the stairs. There were milk cans and fresh
bread outside the apartment doors.

Old Mathilde's door moved.

‘Give me the key.'

‘But—'

‘Open it yourself.'

A profound silence. The click of the
lock. Then they saw the tidy dining room, every object in its rightful place.

Martin hesitated
for a long time before saying out loud, ‘It's me! … And the
detective chief inspector—'

Someone moved in the bed in the adjacent
bedroom. Martin closed the door behind them and groaned, ‘We shouldn't
have … She's not in any way to blame, is she? And in her
condition—'

He didn't dare enter the bedroom.
To maintain his composure, he picked up his suitcases and placed them on two
chairs.

‘Shall I make some
coffee?'

Maigret knocked on the bedroom door.

‘May I come in?'

No reply. He pushed open the door and
received the full force of Madame Martin's stare. She was in bed, motionless,
curling pins in her hair.

‘I'm sorry to disturb
you … I've brought home your husband, who made the mistake of
panicking.'

Martin was behind him. He could sense
him, but he couldn't see him.

Footsteps could be heard in the
courtyard, and voices, chiefly women's voices: the office and laboratory staff
arriving. It was one minute to nine.

A muffled cry from the madwoman next
door. Medication on the bedside table.

‘Are you feeling worse?'

He knew very well that she
wouldn't answer, that despite everything, she would maintain the same staunch
reserve.

She seemed afraid of saying a word, a
single one. As if one word could unleash disaster!

She had grown
thinner and her complexion had become duller. But her eyes, on the other hand, those
strange grey pupils, had a fiery, wilful life of their own.

Martin entered, his legs weak. His
entire demeanour was apologetic, as if asking for forgiveness.

The icy grey eyes swivelled slowly to
look at him, so piercingly that he looked away, stammering, ‘It was at Jeumont
station … One more minute and I'd have been in Belgium.'

Words, sentences, noise were needed, to
fill the void that could be sensed around each individual. A void that was tangible,
to the point that voices echoed as in a tunnel or a cave.

But no one spoke. They struggled to
articulate a few syllables, with anxious glances, then silence fell in the
implacable manner of a fog.

And yet something was happening.
Something slow, insidious: a hand slid beneath the blanket and in an imperceptible
movement inched its way up to the pillow.

Madame Martin's thin, clammy hand.
Maigret, while looking elsewhere, followed its progress, waiting for the moment when
that hand would finally reach its goal.

‘Isn't the doctor supposed
to be coming this morning?'

‘I don't know … Is
anyone looking after me? I'm lying here like an animal left to die.'

But her eyes became brighter because her
hand finally touched the object she was seeking.

A barely audible rustle of paper.

Maigret took a step forward and seized
Madame Martin's wrist. She seemed to have no strength, almost no life. Even
so, from one moment to the next, she
displayed an unimaginable vigour.

She refused to let go of whatever she
was holding. Sitting up in bed, she fought back furiously. She raised her hand to
her mouth. With her teeth she tore the sheet of white paper she was clutching.

‘Let me go! Let me go or
I'll scream! … And you? Are you just going to stand
there?'

‘Detective Chief
Inspector … I beg you,' groaned Martin.

He was listening out. He was afraid the
residents would come running. He didn't dare step in.

‘Beast! Filthy beast! Hitting a
woman!'

No, Maigret wasn't hitting her. He
simply held her wrist in his grip, squeezing a little hard perhaps, to stop the
woman from destroying the document.

‘Aren't you ashamed! A dying
woman—'

A woman who displayed an energy the like
of which Maigret had rarely encountered in his career in the police! His bowler hat
fell on to the bed. She suddenly bit the inspector's wrist.

But she could not keep her nerves so
tensed for long, and he managed to prise her fingers open; she gave a howl of
pain.

Now she was crying, crying without
tears, crying out of vexation, out of rage, perhaps also to strike a pose?

‘And you just stood there and let
him—'

Maigret's back was too broad for
the narrow bedroom. He seemed to fill the entire space, blocking out the light.

He went over to
the fireplace, smoothed out the sheet of paper with bits missing, and ran his eyes
over a typed text on letterhead paper.

Laval and Piollet

of the Paris bar

Counsels in chambers

Solicitors

On the right, in red:
Re Couchet
vs. Martin. Advice of 18 November
.

Two pages of dense, single-spaced
typing. Maigret only read fragments, in a quiet voice, while typewriters could be
heard clattering in the offices of Doctor Rivière's Serums.

In view of the law of …

Given that Roger Couchet's death occurred subsequent to that of his
father …

… that no will can deprive a legitimate son of his rightful
share …

… that the second marriage of the testator to Madame Dormoy was under
the joint estate system …

… that Roger Couchet's natural heir is his mother …

… have the honour of confirming that you are entitled to claim half of
Raymond Couchet's estate, including both movable and immovable
assets … which, according to the specific
information we have received and subject to
adjustment for errors or omissions, we value at around five million, the
establishment known as ‘Doctor Rivière's Serums' itself
being estimated at three million …

… We remain at your service to take any steps necessary to nullify the
will and …

Confirm that of the sums recovered we will retain a commission of ten per
cent (10%) for costs …

Madame Martin had stopped crying. She was
lying down again and her frosty gaze was once more directed at the ceiling.

Martin stood in the doorway, more
disconcerted than ever, not knowing what to do with his hands, his eyes, his entire
body.

‘There's a
postscript!' muttered Maigret to himself.

The postscript was preceded by the
words:
Strictly confidential
.

It is our belief that Madame Couchet, née Dormoy, is also minded to contest
the will.

Furthermore, we have made enquiries about the third beneficiary, Nine
Moinard. She is a woman of dubious reputation, who has not yet taken any
steps to claim her due.

Given that she is currently without any resources, it seems to us that the
most expeditious solution would be to offer her a sum of money as
compensation.

We would suggest the sum of twenty thousand francs, which is likely to
delight a person in Mlle Moinard's situation.

We await your decision on this matter.

Maigret had allowed his pipe to go out.
He slowly folded the document and slipped it into his wallet.

Around him, all was absolute silence.
Martin seemed to be holding his breath. His wife, on the bed, staring fixedly,
already looked like a corpse.

‘Two million, five hundred
thousand francs,' murmured the chief inspector. ‘Minus the twenty
thousand francs to be given to Nine to ensure she would be
accommodating … It's true that Madame Couchet will probably
contribute half—'

He was certain that a triumphant smile,
faint but eloquent, hovered on the woman's lips.

‘That's a hefty
sum! … I say, Martin—'

Martin gave a start, tried to put
himself on the defensive.

‘What do you expect to
receive? … I'm not talking about money … I'm talking
about your sentence … Theft … Murder … Perhaps
they'll establish that there was premeditation … In your
opinion? … No acquittal, naturally, since it wasn't a crime of
passion … Oh! If only your wife had resumed relations with her former
husband … but that is not the case … A question of money, purely
of money … Ten years? … Twenty years? … Do you want to
know what I think? … Mind you, it's never possible to guess at the
decisions of jurors … Although
there have been precedents … Well, we can say
that in general, while they tend to be lenient when it comes to crimes of passion,
they are extremely harsh in cases involving personal gain …'

It was as if he were talking for the
sake of talking, playing for time.

‘That's understandable! They
are petty bourgeois, traders … They believe they have nothing to fear from
mistresses they don't have or who they trust … but they have a lot
to fear from thieves … Twenty years? … Well, no! … I
reckon it'll be the guillotine—'