The Shadow Puppet (2 page)

The man, whose face was in shadow,
paused, started walking again and stopped once more, constantly glancing up in the
direction of his own windows.

‘He must have been sent outside to
wait. Already, earlier on … Come … Oh no! There they go again
with their gramophone! And right above the Saint-Marcs, too!'

A smaller window, on the second floor,
not so brightly lit. It was closed, and you could imagine, rather than hear, the
music from a gramophone.

The concierge, all obsequious, jittery,
red-eyed, her
fingers twitching, walked to
the far end of the courtyard, pointed to a short flight of steps, a half-open
door.

‘You'll see him, on your
left. I'd rather not go in there again.'

An ordinary office. Light-coloured
furniture. Plain wallpaper.

And a man in his mid-forties, sitting in
an armchair, his head on the scattered papers in front of him. He'd been shot
in the chest.

Maigret listened attentively: the
concierge was still outside, waiting for him, and Monsieur de Saint-Marc was still
pacing up and down the courtyard. From time to time, an omnibus rumbled past and the
racket made the ensuing silence seem all the more absolute.

The inspector touched nothing. He simply
made sure that the gun had not been left lying around the office, stood surveying
the scene for three or four minutes, puffing on his pipe, then he left, with a
determined air.

‘Well?'

The concierge was still there. She spoke
in hushed tones.

‘Nothing! He's
dead!'

‘Monsieur de Saint-Marc has just
been called upstairs.'

There was a commotion in the apartment.
Doors were slamming. There was the sound of running footsteps.

‘She's so frail!'

‘Yes!' muttered Maigret,
scratching the back of his neck. ‘Only that's not the issue. Do you have
any idea who could have entered the office?'

‘Me? How would
I …?'

‘Excuse me,
but from your lodge at the entrance to the building, you must see the residents
coming and going.'

‘I ought to! Now if the landlord
gave me a decent lodge and put in proper lighting … I can only just hear
footsteps and, yes, at night I see shadows … There are some footsteps
I'm able to recognize.'

‘Have you noticed anything unusual
since six o'clock?'

‘Nothing! Nearly all the residents
came down to empty their rubbish. The bins are here, to the left of my lodge. Do you
see the four dustbins? They're not allowed to come down before seven
p.m.'

‘And nobody came in via the
archway?'

‘How would I know? It's
obvious you don't know this building. There are twenty-eight residents. Not
counting the Couchet laboratory, where people are coming and going all the
time.'

Footsteps in the entrance. A man in a
bowler hat entered the courtyard, turned left and, going over to the dustbins,
grabbed an empty bin. Despite the darkness, he must have spotted Maigret and the
concierge, since he froze for a second, and then said, ‘Nothing for
me?'

‘Nothing, Monsieur
Martin.'

And Maigret asked, ‘Who's
that?'

‘Monsieur Martin, a Registry
Office official who lives on the second floor with his wife.'

‘How come his rubbish
bin—?'

‘Nearly all of them do that when
they have to go out. They bring the bin down on the way out and pick it up when they
come back. Did you hear that?'

‘What?'

‘It sounded
like … like a baby crying. If only those two up there would turn off that
wretched gramophone! They know perfectly well that Madame de Saint-Marc's
giving birth.'

She hurried over to the staircase, which
someone was descending.

‘Well, doctor? Is it a
boy?'

‘A girl.'

And the doctor left. He could be heard
starting up his car and driving off.

Day-to-day life went on. The dark
courtyard. The archway and its feeble bulb. The lighted windows and the vague sound
of music from a gramophone.

The dead man was still in his office,
all alone, his head resting on scattered papers.

Suddenly there was a scream from the
second floor. A piercing shriek, like a desperate call for help. But the concierge
didn't react. She sighed as she pushed open the door to her lodge,
‘There goes the madwoman again.'

Then it was her turn to shout, because
one of her kids had broken a plate. The light revealed the concierge's thin,
tired face, her ageless body.

‘When will all the formalities
begin?' she asked.

The tobacconist's opposite was
still open, and a few minutes later Maigret shut himself inside the telephone booth.
He issued instructions in hushed tones.

‘Yes, the public
prosecutor … 61 … Almost on the corner of Rue de
Turenne … and inform the forensics
department … Hello! … Yes, I'm remaining at the
scene.'

He walked a few
steps and mechanically passed under the archway and ended up standing glumly in the
middle of the courtyard, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

One by one the lighted windows went
dark. The silhouette of the dead man could still be seen through the frosted glass
like a Chinese shadow puppet.

A taxi pulled up. It wasn't the
public prosecutor yet. A young woman crossed the courtyard with hurried steps,
leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake, and pushed open the door to Couchet's
office.

There was a whole succession of
unfortunate moves that resulted in a comical situation. On discovering the body, the
young woman wheeled round and caught sight of Maigret's tall form in the
doorway. Automatically she associated two images: a dead man and a murderer.

Wide-eyed, her body tensed, she opened
her mouth to scream for help, dropping her handbag.

Maigret had no time to argue. He seized
her arm and put his hand over her mouth.

‘Ssssh! You're mistaken!
Police.'

Before his words sank in, she struggled
and, being highly strung, tried to bite, kicking back with her heels.

There was a sound of silk ripping: her
dress strap.

Finally, Maigret managed to reassure
her. ‘Hush,' he repeated, ‘I'm from the police. We
don't want to disturb the entire building.'

Silence, unusual in such situations, was
the characteristic of this murder, as was the calmness, the twenty-eight residents
all going about their ordinary business oblivious of the body.

The young woman adjusted her clothing
and her hair.

‘Were you his mistress?'

She shot Maigret a furious look as she
rummaged for a pin to fix her strap.

‘Had you
arranged to meet him this evening?'

‘At eight o'clock, at the
Select. We were supposed to be having dinner together and then going to the
theatre.'

‘When he didn't turn up at
eight, didn't you telephone him?'

‘Yes! But the phone was off the
hook.'

They both saw it at the same time, on
the desk. The man must have knocked it over when he fell forward.

Footsteps in the courtyard, where that
evening the slightest sounds were amplified, as if under a bell. The concierge
called out from the threshold, to avoid seeing the body.

‘Detective Chief
Inspector … The local police—'

She did not like them. They arrived in
groups of four or five, making no attempt to be discreet. One of them was telling a
funny story. Another asked, on reaching the office, ‘Where's the
body?'

Since the local police chief was away,
his deputy was standing in for him, so Maigret felt even more comfortable taking
charge of operations.

‘Leave your men outside. I'm
waiting for the public prosecutor. It is preferable for the residents not to have
any idea—'

And, while the deputy inspected the
office, he turned once more to the young woman.

‘What is your name?'

‘Nine, Nine Moinard, but everyone
calls me by my first name.'

‘How long have you known
Couchet?'

‘Six months maybe.'

There was no need
to ask her many questions. It was enough to watch her. A fairly pretty girl, still
at the beginning of her career. Her outfit was from a quality fashion house, but her
make-up, the way she held her bag and gloves and the aggressive look in her eyes
gave away her music-hall background.

‘Dancer?'

‘I was at the Moulin
Bleu
.
'

‘What about now?'

‘I'm with him.'

She hadn't had time to cry.
Everything had happened too fast and the facts hadn't properly sunk in
yet.

‘Did he live with you?'

‘Not exactly, because he was
married. But—'

‘Your address?'

‘Hôtel Pigalle
,
Rue
Pigalle.'

The police station deputy commented,
‘In any case, no one can claim it was a burglary!'

‘Why not?'

‘Look! The safe's behind
him! It's not locked, but the body is blocking the door!'

Nine, who had taken a small handkerchief
out of her bag, sniffed and dabbed at her nostrils.

A moment later, the atmosphere changed.
Cars screeching to a stop outside. Footsteps and voices in the courtyard. Then
handshakes, questions, noisy discussions. The public prosecutor and his
investigating team had arrived. The pathologist examined the body and the
photographers set up their equipment.

For Maigret, it was an unpleasant wait.
After exchanging
the obligatory
pleasantries, he went outside, his hands in his pockets, lit his pipe and bumped
into someone in the dark. It was the concierge, who could not stand by and let
strangers run around her building without finding out what they were up to.

‘What's your name?'
Maigret asked her kindly.

‘Madame Bourcier. Are these
gentlemen going to be here long? Look! The light's gone out in Madame de
Saint-Marc's bedroom, she must have gone to sleep, poor thing.'

Looking up at the building, the chief
inspector noticed another light, a cream-coloured curtain and, behind it, a
woman's silhouette. She was small and thin, like the concierge. You
couldn't hear her voice, but even so, you could tell she was angry. Sometimes
she would remain stock still, staring at an unseen person, then abruptly she would
start speaking, gesticulating, taking a few steps forward.

‘Who is that?'

‘Madame Martin. You saw her
husband return earlier, you know, the man who picked up his rubbish bin, the
Registry Office official.'

‘Are they in the habit of
arguing?'

‘They don't argue.
She's the one who shouts. He doesn't dare open his mouth.'

From time to time, Maigret took a look
inside the office where ten or so people were busy at work. Standing in the doorway,
the prosecutor called the concierge.

‘Who is Monsieur Couchet's
second-in-command?'

‘The manager, Monsieur Philippe.
He doesn't live far away, he's on the Ile Saint-Louis.'

‘Does he
have a telephone?'

‘He's bound to.'

There was a sound of voices speaking on
the phone. Upstairs, Madame Martin's silhouette could no longer be seen
against the curtain. However, a nondescript individual came down the stairs,
furtively crossed the courtyard and went out into the street. Maigret recognized
Monsieur Martin's bowler hat and putty-coloured overcoat.

It was midnight. The girls playing the
gramophone switched off their lights. Apart from the office, the only light left on
was on the first floor, in the Saint-Marcs' sitting room, where the former
ambassador and the midwife were conversing in low voices, a faint odour of
disinfectant in the air.

Despite the late hour, when Monsieur
Philippe arrived, he was impeccably turned out, his dark, well-kempt beard, his
hands gloved in grey suede. He was in his forties, the epitome of the
serious-minded, well-brought-up intellectual.

He was certainly astonished, devastated
even, by the news. But he seemed somehow to be holding back in his reaction.

‘With the life he led,' he
sighed.

‘What life?'

‘I refuse to speak ill of Monsieur
Couchet. Besides, there's no ill to speak of. He was master of his own
time—'

‘Just a minute! Did Monsieur
Couchet manage his company himself?'

‘Neither hands-on nor hands-off.
It was he who started
it up. But once it
was up and running, he left me to handle everything. To the extent that sometimes I
didn't see him for a fortnight. Take today, I waited for him till five
o'clock. It's payday tomorrow. Monsieur Couchet was supposed to bring me
the money to pay the staff's wages. Around 300,000 francs. At five
o'clock, I had to go and I left a report for him on the desk.'