The Shadow Puppet (5 page)

‘As always!'

‘In other words, you were sponging
off him?'

‘He was wealthy enough
to—'

‘Just a moment! Where were you at
around eight p.m. last night?'

There was no hesitation.

‘At the Select,' he said
with an ironic smile that meant,
Don't you think I can't see where
this is leading!

‘What were you doing at the
Select?'

‘I was waiting for my
father.'

‘So, you needed money! And you
knew that he'd be coming to the Select?'

‘He was there nearly every evening
with his mistress. And anyway, that afternoon I overheard her talking on the
telephone. You can hear everything through these walls.'

‘When you realized that your
father wasn't coming, did it occur to you to go to his office in Place des
Vosges?'

‘No.'

Maigret picked up a photograph of the
young man from the mantelpiece. It was surrounded by portraits of different women.
He put it in his pocket, mumbling, ‘May I?'

‘If you wish.'

‘You don't think—?'
began Monsieur Martin.

‘I
don't think anything at all. Which reminds me I'd like to ask you some
questions. How were relations between your household and Roger?'

‘He didn't come
often.'

‘And when he did come?'

‘He only stayed for a few
minutes.'

‘Is his mother aware of his
lifestyle?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Don't pretend to be stupid,
Monsieur Martin. Does your wife know that her son lives in Montmartre and is a
layabout?'

And the civil servant looked at the
floor, embarrassed.

‘I have often tried to persuade
him to get a job,' he sighed.

This time, the young man started
drumming impatiently on the table.

‘You can see that I'm still
in my pyjamas and that—'

‘Would you tell me if you saw
anyone you knew at the Select last night?'

‘I saw Nine!'

‘Did you say anything to
her?'

‘What? I have never spoken to
her.'

‘Where was she sitting?'

‘The second table to the right of
the bar.'

‘Where did you find your glove,
Monsieur Martin? If my memory serves me correctly, you were looking for it last
night in the courtyard, near the dustbins.'

Monsieur Martin gave a strained little
laugh.

‘It was at home! Can you believe
it, I had gone out with only one glove on and I hadn't noticed.'

‘When you left Place des Vosges,
where did you go?'

‘I went for
a walk along the embankment. I had a very bad headache.'

‘Do you often go out for a walk at
night without your wife?'

‘Sometimes.'

This was agony for him. And he still
didn't know what to do with his gloved hands.

‘Are you going to your office
now?'

‘No! I telephoned to ask for the
day off. I can't leave my wife in—'

‘Well, go back to her,
then!'

Maigret stayed put. The man was casting
around for a dignified way of making his exit.

‘Goodbye, Roger,' he gulped.
‘I … I think you should go and see your mother.'

But Roger merely shrugged and gave
Maigret an irritated look. Monsieur Martin's footsteps could be heard fading
on the stairs.

The young man said nothing. His hand
automatically picked up a bottle of ether from the bedside table and set it down
further away.

‘You have nothing to say?'
the inspector asked slowly.

‘Nothing!'

‘Because, if you do want to make a
statement, you'd better do so now rather than later.'

‘I won't have anything to
say to you later. No, actually I will! One thing I'll tell you right now, is
that you're barking up the wrong tree.'

‘By the way, since you
didn't see your father last night, you must be short of money?'

‘Too
true!'

‘Where are you going to find
some?'

‘Oh please don't worry about
me. Do you mind?'

And he ran some water into the basin and
started washing.

Maigret, to keep his countenance, took a
few more steps and then left the room. He went next door, where the two women were
waiting. Now it was Céline who was the most anxious. Nine was sitting in the wing
chair slowly nibbling at a handkerchief and staring at the blank window with her big
dreamy eyes.

‘Well?' asked Roger's
mistress.

‘Nothing! You can go back to your
room.'

‘Is it really his father
who—?'

And suddenly, she frowned.

‘So does that mean he's
going to inherit?'

Looking pensive, she left.

Outside on the pavement, Maigret asked
Nine, ‘Where are you going?'

A vague, dismissive wave, then,
‘I'm going to the Moulin Bleu to see if they'll take me
back.'

He watched her with avuncular
interest.

‘Were you fond of
Couchet?'

‘I told you yesterday, he was a
good man. And there aren't many of those around, I can assure you! To think
that some bastard—'

There were a couple of tears, then
nothing.

‘It's here,' she said
pushing open a little door that was the stage entrance.

Maigret was
thirsty and went into a bar for a beer. He had to go to Place des Vosges. The sight
of a telephone reminded him that he hadn't yet dropped into Quai des Orfèvres
and that there might be urgent post waiting on his desk.

He called the office boy.

‘Is that you, Jean? Nothing for
me? What? A lady who's been waiting for an hour? In mourning? It's not
Madame Couchet? What? Madame Martin? I'm on my way.'

Madame Martin
in mourning
! And
she'd been waiting for him at police headquarters for an hour!

All Maigret had seen of her so far was a
shadow puppet, the comical, gesticulating shadow on the second-floor curtain the
previous evening, whose mouth opened and shut, emitting a furious invective.

It happens all the time!
the
concierge had told him.

And the poor civil servant, who'd
forgotten his glove and gone for a solitary walk along the dark banks of the
Seine.

And when Maigret had left the courtyard,
at one a.m., he'd heard a noise at a window.

He slowly climbed the dusty stairs,
shook hands with a few colleagues in passing and put his head around the half-open
door of the waiting room.

Ten green velvet armchairs. A table like
a billiards table. On the wall, the roll of honour: 200 portraits of inspectors
killed in the line of duty.

In the centre chair a lady in black sat
very stiffly, one hand clutching her handbag with its silver clasp, the other
resting on the handle of an umbrella.

Thin lips. A
steady gaze staring straight ahead.

She did not move a muscle on sensing
that she was being watched.

She sat and waited with a set
expression.

She walked ahead of Maigret with that
aggressive dignity of those for whom mockery is the worst calamity.

‘Please sit down,
madame!'

It was a clumsy, friendly Maigret, with
a slightly vague look in his eyes who showed her into his office, indicating a chair
bathed in light streaming in through the pale oblong window. She sat down, adopting
exactly the same pose as in the waiting room.

A dignified pose, naturally! A fighting
posture too. Her shoulders did not touch the back of the chair. And her black-gloved
hand was poised to gesticulate without letting go of the handbag, which would swing
through the air.

He, on the other hand, sat in an
armchair. It was tilted back, and he sprawled in a rather crude position, puffing
avidly on his pipe.

‘I imagine, Detective Chief
Inspector, that you are wondering why I—'

‘No!'

It wasn't malice that made Maigret
throw her off balance like that the minute they met. It wasn't a coincidence
either. He knew it was necessary.

Madame Martin jumped, or rather her
chest stiffened.

‘What do you mean? I don't
imagine you were expecting—'

‘Oh yes, I was!'

And he smiled at
her good-naturedly. Suddenly, her fingers were ill at ease in her black woollen
gloves. Her sharp gaze swept the room and then something occurred to Madame
Martin.

‘Have you received an anonymous
letter?'

It was a statement as much as a
question, with a false air of certainty, which made the inspector smile all the
more, because this again was a characteristic trait that fitted in with everything
he already knew about the woman sitting in his office.

‘I've not received any
anonymous letter.'

She shook her head dubiously.

‘You won't have me
believe—'

She was straight out of a family photo
album. Physically, she was a perfect match for the Registry Office official she had
married.

It was easy to imagine them strolling up
the Champs-Élysées on Sunday afternoons: Madame Martin's black, twitchy back,
her hat always skew-whiff because of her bun, walking with the hurried pace of an
active woman and that jerk of her chin to underline her emphatic words; Monsieur
Martin's putty-coloured overcoat, his leather gloves and walking stick, and
his peaceful, assured gait, his attempts at a leisurely promenade, stopping to gaze
at the window displays.

‘Did you have mourning clothes at
home?' murmured Maigret snidely, exhaling a big cloud of smoke.

‘My sister died three years
ago … I mean my sister in Blois, the one who married a police inspector.
You see that—'

‘That—?'

Nothing. She was warning him. It was
time to make him aware that she wasn't just anyone!

She was on edge, because the entire
speech she had rehearsed was pointless, and it was the fault of this burly
inspector.

‘When did you hear about the death
of your first husband?'

‘Why … this morning,
like everyone else! It was the concierge who told me you were handling this case
and, seeing as my situation is rather awkward … You can't possibly
understand.'

‘I think I can! By the way,
didn't your son visit you yesterday afternoon?'

‘What are you
insinuating?'

‘Nothing. It's a simple
question.'

‘The concierge will tell you that
he hasn't been to see me for at least three weeks.'

She spoke sharply. The look in her eyes
more aggressive. Had Maigret perhaps been wrong not to let her make her speech?

‘I'm delighted that
you've come to see me, as it shows great delicacy and—'

The mere word ‘delicacy'
caused something in the woman's grey eyes to change, and she bowed her head by
way of thanks.

‘Some situations are very
painful,' she said. ‘Not everybody understands. Even my husband, who
advised me not to wear mourning! Mind you, I'm wearing it without wearing it.
No veil. No crape band. Just black clothes.'

He nodded his chin and put his pipe down
on the table.

‘Just
because we're divorced and Raymond made me unhappy, it doesn't mean that
I must—'

She was regaining her assurance and
imperceptibly launching into her prepared speech.

‘Especially in a large building
like ours, where there are twenty-eight households. And what households! I'm
not talking about the people on the first floor. And even then! Although Monsieur de
Saint-Marc is well-bred, his wife's something else, she wouldn't say
hello to her neighbours for all the gold in the world. When one has been properly
brought up, it's distressing to—'

‘Were you born in
Paris?'

‘My father was a confectioner in
Meaux.'

‘How old were you when you married
Couchet?'

‘I was twenty. Of course, my
parents wouldn't let me serve in the shop. In those days, Couchet used to
travel. He stated that he earned a very good living, that he could make a woman
happy.'

Her gaze hardened as she sought
reassurance that there was no threat of mockery from Maigret.

‘I'd rather not tell you how
much he made me suffer! All the money he earned he lost in ridiculous gambles. He
claimed he was growing rich, we moved home three times a year, and by the time my
son was born, we had no savings at all. It was my mother who had to pay for the
layette.'

Finally she rested her umbrella against
the desk. Maigret mused that she must have been speaking with the same sharp
vehemence the previous evening when he'd seen her shadow against the
curtain.

‘When a man isn't capable of
feeding a wife, he has no
business getting
married! That's what I say. And especially when he has no pride left. I hardly
dare tell you all the jobs Couchet's had. I told him to look for a proper
position, with a pension attached, in the civil service, for example. At least if
anything happened to him, I wouldn't be left destitute. But no! He even ended
up following the Tour de France as some sort of dogsbody. His job was to organize
food for the cyclists, or something of the sort. And he came back without a
sou
! That's the man he was. And that's the life I
had.'