The Shadow Puppet (7 page)

Opposite, the park keeper was locking
the gates. In the Saint-Marcs' first-floor apartment, the manservant was
drawing the curtains, slowly, meticulously.

When Maigret knocked at the door of the
concierge's lodge, he found Madame Bourcier telling the whole story to a
Dufayel credit collector in the store's navy blue livery who wore a little
inkwell pendant on a chain around his neck.

‘This is a respectable residence
where nothing has ever happened … Sssh! … Here comes the
inspector.'

She vaguely had something in common with
Madame Martin, in that both women were ageless, and sexless. And both had suffered,
or considered they had.

Except that the
concierge seemed more resigned, displaying an almost animal acceptance of her
fate.

‘Jojo … Lili … Don't stand in the
way … Good evening, Detective Chief Inspector … I was expecting
you this morning … What a business! … I thought it was the right
thing to do to go round to all the residents to ask them to club together for a
wreath. Do we know when the funeral will be? … Oh, by the
way … Madame de Saint-Marc … you know! … Please
don't say anything to her … Monsieur de Saint-Marc came by this
morning … He doesn't want her upset, in her condition.'

In the dusky light of the courtyard, the
two lamps, the one hanging in the archway and the one on the wall, threw long yellow
lines.

‘Madame Martin's
apartment?' asked Maigret.

‘Second floor, third door on the
right, after the bend.'

Maigret recognized the window, where a
light was on, but there was no shadow against the curtain.

A clatter of typewriters could be heard
coming from the offices. A delivery man arrived.

‘Doctor Rivière's
Serums?'

‘At the back of the courtyard.
Right-hand door. Jojo! Leave your sister alone!'

Maigret started walking up the stairs,
Madame Martin's umbrella under his arm. The building had been renovated up to
the first floor, the walls repainted and the stairs varnished.

From the second floor, it was a
different world – grubby walls and a rough floor. The apartment doors were painted
an ugly brown and had either name
cards tacked on to them or little spun aluminium plates.

A calling card at three francs a
hundred:
Monsieur and Madame Edgar Martin
. To the right, a three-colour
braided bell-pull with a silk tassel. When Maigret yanked it, a reedy bell rang in
the hollowness of the apartment. Then there were rapid footsteps. A voice asked,
‘Who is it?'

‘I've brought back your
umbrella.'

The door opened. The entrance hall was
reduced to one square metre with a coat stand from which the putty-coloured overcoat
hung. Directly opposite, the open door of a room, part living room, part dining
room, with a wireless set on a sideboard.

‘Forgive me for the intrusion.
This morning you left this umbrella in my office.'

‘There you go! And I was convinced
I'd left it on the bus. I was saying to Martin—'

Maigret did not smile. He was used to
women who were in the habit of calling their husbands by their surnames.

Martin was there, in his striped
trousers over which he'd slipped a chocolate-coloured, coarse-cloth smoking
jacket.

‘Do come in.'

‘I wouldn't want to disturb
you.'

‘You never disturb people who have
nothing to hide!'

The primordial characteristic of a home
is probably its smell. Here, the smell was indistinct, a blend of caustic soda,
cooking and musty old clothes.

A canary was
hopping about in a cage, occasionally spraying a drop of water.

‘Offer the detective chief
inspector the armchair.'

The
armchair! There was only
one, a high-backed Voltaire leather armchair so dark that it looked black.

And Madame Martin, very different from
how she had been that morning, simpered, ‘You'll have a drink,
won't you … Oh you must! Martin! Pour an aperitif.'

Martin was flustered. Perhaps there was
nothing to drink? Perhaps they were nearly out?

‘No thank you, madame. I never
drink on an empty stomach.'

‘But you have the time—'

It was sad. So sad that it almost made
you want to give up on being a man, on living on this earth, even though the sun
shines over it for several hours a day and there are real birds flying freely!

These people didn't seem very fond
of light, for the three electric bulbs were carefully shrouded in heavy, coloured
shades that let only the tiniest amount of light through.

‘Caustic soda mainly,'
thought Maigret.

That was the dominant
smell
!
What's more, the surface of the solid oak table was polished as smooth as an
ice rink.

Monsieur Martin wore the smile of a man
entertaining.

‘You must have a marvellous view
over the Place des Vosges, which is the only square of its kind in Paris,'
said Maigret, who was perfectly aware that the windows overlooked the courtyard.

‘No! The
apartments at the front, on the second floor, have very low ceilings, because of the
architectural style … All the buildings around the square are classed as
historical monuments, you know. We can't change anything, which is a great
shame! We've been wanting to put in a bathroom for years and—'

Maigret had walked over to the window.
He casually tweaked the shadow-puppet blind. And stood stock still, so stunned that
he forgot to make polite conversation.

Facing him were the Couchet firm's
offices and laboratory.

From downstairs he had noticed that
there were frosted-glass windows, but from up here, he saw that only the lower panes
were frosted. The others were clear, transparent, washed two or three times a week
by the cleaning women.

There was a clear view of the spot where
Couchet had been killed, and of Monsieur Philippe signing the typed letters that his
secretary was handing to him one at a time. He could see the lock on the safe.

And the communicating door to the
laboratory stood ajar. Through the laboratory windows, a row of women in white
overalls, sitting at a massive bench, could be seen packing glass tubes.

Each woman had a particular task. The
first took the bare tubes from a basket and the ninth passed the neat packages with
their patient information leaflets to an office worker, in other words, goods ready
to be delivered to the pharmacists.

‘Pour him a drink anyway,'
said Madame Martin's voice behind Maigret.

And her husband
busied himself opening a cupboard with a clinking of glasses.

‘Just a thimbleful of Vermouth,
Detective Chief Inspector! … No doubt Madame Couchet is able to offer you
cocktails—'

And Madame Martin gave a peeved smile,
as if her lips were barbs.

Glass in hand, watching Madame Martin
closely, Maigret said, ‘If only you'd been looking out of the window
yesterday evening, my investigation would be over! Because from here it is
impossible not to see everything that goes on in Couchet's office.'

His voice and manner contained no
insinuations. He sipped his Vermouth and carried on chatting.

‘I'd even say that this case
would have been one of the most unusual instances of witnessing a criminal act.
Someone who was present at a murder from a distance! What am I saying? With
binoculars, you'd be able to see the lips of the speakers so clearly that you
could work out what they were saying.'

Not knowing what to think, Madame Martin
remained guarded, a vague smile frozen on her pale lips
.

‘But also, how upsetting for you!
Standing at your window, minding your own business, and suddenly seeing someone
threatening your ex-husband! Even worse, for the scenario must have been more
complicated than that. I can picture Couchet all alone, absorbed in his accounts. He
gets up and goes to the toilet. When he comes back, someone has ransacked the safe
but hasn't managed to get away. But there is one odd detail, which is that
Couchet sat down again. True, perhaps he knew
the thief? … He speaks to him … He
chides him, asks him to hand back the money—'

‘The only thing is, I'd have
had to be at the window,' said Madame Martin.

‘Perhaps other windows on this
floor afford the same view? Who lives on your right?'

‘Two girls and their
mother … The ones who play records every night.'

Just then came a scream, which Maigret
had heard before. He said nothing at first, then murmured, ‘That's the
madwoman, isn't it?'

‘Sssh!' said Madame Martin
tiptoeing over to the door.

She flung it open and in the dimly lit
corridor the shape of a woman beating a hasty retreat could be seen.

‘Old cat!' grumbled Madame
Martin loudly enough to be heard by the receding figure.

Coming back into the room, furious, she
explained, ‘It's old Mathilde! A former cook. Did you see her? She looks
like a fat toad! She lives in the room next door with her sister, who's mad. I
don't know which one's the ugliest. The mad one hasn't left her
room once in all the years we've had this apartment.'

‘Why does she scream like
that?'

‘Why indeed! She screams when
she's left alone in the dark. She's afraid, like a child. She
screams … I've finally worked out what's going on. From
morning till night, old Mathilde roams the corridors. You're bound to come
across her lurking behind a door. And when you catch her, she's not even
embarrassed … She wanders off with her ugly, placid grin. You don't
feel at home here any more,
you have to
talk in whispers if you want to discuss private matters. I just caught her at it,
didn't I? Well, I bet she's already back.'

‘It's not very
pleasant,' agreed Maigret. ‘But can't the landlord do anything
about it?'

‘He's done his best to throw
them out, but unfortunately there are laws. To say nothing of the fact that
it's both unhealthy and repugnant, those two old women in one tiny room! I bet
they never wash.'

Maigret had grabbed his hat.

‘Forgive me for having disturbed
you. It's time for me to go.'

Now he had a clear picture of the
apartment in his mind, from the doilies to the calendars on the walls.

‘Be very quiet and you'll
catch the old lady at it.'

That was not entirely the case. She
wasn't in the corridor, but behind her half-open door, like a plump spider
waiting to ambush her prey. She must have been disconcerted when the inspector
greeted her politely as he walked past.

Aperitif time found Maigret sitting in
the Select, not far from the American bar where all the talk was of horse-racing.
When the waiter came over, he showed him the photo of Roger Couchet, which he had
‘borrowed' from the young man that morning.

‘Do you know this young
man?'

The waiter looked surprised.

‘That's strange.'

‘What's strange?'

‘He left
not even fifteen minutes ago. He was sitting at this table! I wouldn't have
noticed him except that instead of telling me what he wanted to drink, he said,
“Same as yesterday”! But I didn't recall seeing him, so I said,
“Can you remind me what that was?” “A gin-fizz, remember?”,
and that's the oddest part. Because I'm sure I didn't serve a
single gin-fizz yesterday evening.

‘He stayed for a few minutes and
then he left … It's strange that you should come in just now and
show me his photograph.'

It wasn't strange at all. Roger
had been determined to establish that he had been at the Select
the previous
evening, as he had told Maigret. He had used quite a clever trick but his mistake
had been to choose a drink that was out of the ordinary.

A few minutes later, Nine came in,
looking downcast, and sat at the table closest to the bar. Then, spotting Maigret,
she rose, dithered, and came over to him.

‘Did you want to talk to
me?' she asked.

‘Not especially. Actually yes!
I'd like to ask you a question. You come here almost every evening,
don't you?'

‘Raymond always asked me to meet
him here.'

‘Do you have a regular
table?'

‘Over there, where I sat when I
came in.'

‘Were you there
yesterday?'

‘Yes, why?'

‘And do you remember seeing the
original of this portrait?'

She looked at the photo of Roger and
murmured, ‘But that's my next-door neighbour!'

‘Yes,
he's Couchet's son.'

Troubled by this coincidence, her eyes
opened wide as she wondered what it meant.