The Shadow Puppet (12 page)

‘He had heart disease. He knew
it.'

Nine sipped her ruby-coloured
aperitif.

‘That's why he took things
easy. He said he'd worked enough, that it was time for him to enjoy
life.'

‘Did he sometimes talk about
death?'

‘Often! But not … not
that kind of death! He was thinking of his heart disease.'

They were in one of those little bars
where all the customers are regulars. The owner watched Maigret covertly as if he
were a bourgeois meeting his mistress. At the counter, the men were talking about
the afternoon's racing.

‘Was he sad?'

‘It's hard to explain!
Because he wasn't like other men. For example, when we were at the theatre, or
somewhere else, he'd be enjoying himself. Then, for no reason, he'd say
with a deep laugh,
“Life's a bitch, isn't it,
Ninette!”
'

‘Did he take care of his
son?'

‘No.'

‘Did he talk about him?'

‘Almost never! Only when he came
to scrounge.'

‘And what did he say?'

‘He'd sigh,
“What
a stupid idiot!”
'

Maigret had
already intuited that, for one reason or another, Couchet had little affection for
his son. It even seemed as if he was disgusted by the young man. Disgusted to the
point of not trying to come to his rescue!

For he had never lectured him. And he
gave him money to get rid of him, or out of pity.

‘Waiter! How much do I owe
you?'

‘Four francs sixty!'

Nine left the bar with him and they
stood on the pavement of Rue Fontaine for a moment.

‘Where are you living
now?'

‘Rue Lepic, the first hotel on the
left. I haven't even looked at the name yet. It's fairly
clean.'

‘When you're rich
you'll be able—'

She gave him a watery smile.

‘You know very well I'll
never be rich! I'm not the sort for all that.'

The strangest thing was that Maigret had
that very impression. Nine didn't look like someone who would be rich one day.
He couldn't have said why.

‘I'll accompany you to Place
Pigalle, where I'm going to get my tram.'

They walked slowly, Maigret huge, burly,
and Nine petite next to his broad back.

‘If you knew how lost I feel being
on my own! Luckily there's the theatre, with two rehearsals a day until the
show opens.'

She had to take two steps to each of
Maigret's strides, and was almost running. At the corner of Rue Pigalle, she
stopped abruptly, while the
inspector frowned and muttered under his breath, ‘The fool!'

But they couldn't see anything.
Opposite Hôtel Pigalle, around forty people were gathered. A police officer stood in
the doorway trying to move them on.

That was all, but there was that
particular atmosphere, that silence that you only encounter in the street when a
tragedy occurs.

‘What's going on?'
stammered Nine. ‘In my hotel!'

‘No! It's nothing! Go back
to your room—'

‘But … something—'

‘Go!' he snapped.

And she obeyed, scared, while Maigret
elbowed his way through the crowd. He charged like a ram. Women shouted abuse at
him. The police sergeant recognized him and asked him to step inside the hotel.

The district detective chief inspector
was already there, talking to the porter, who cried out, pointing at Maigret,
‘It's him! I recognize him—'

The two inspectors shook hands. From the
little lounge that opened off the lobby, sobs, groans and indistinct murmurs could
be heard.

‘How did he do it?' asked
Maigret.

‘The girl who lives with him
states that he was standing by the window, very calm. She got dressed, and he
watched her, whistling. He only paused to tell her she had lovely thighs, but that
her calves were too thin. Then he started whistling again, and suddenly everything
went quiet. She felt a terrible emptiness … He was no longer there! He
couldn't have left via the door.'

‘Got it!
Did he injure anyone as he landed on the pavement?'

‘No one. Killed outright. Spine
broken in two places.'

‘Here's the
ambulance,' announced the sergeant coming over to them.

And the district detective chief
inspector explained to Maigret, ‘There's nothing more to be done. Do you
know whether he has any family who need to be informed? When you arrived, the porter
was just telling me that the young man had had a visitor this morning … a
tall, well-built man. He was giving me a description of this man when you turned up.
It was you! Should I write a report anyway, or will you deal with
everything?'

‘Write a report.'

‘What about the family?'

‘I'll deal with
them.'

He opened the door to the lounge, saw a
shape lying on the floor, completely covered with a blanket from one of the
beds.

Céline, crumpled in an armchair, was now
making a regular wailing noise, while a plump woman – the owner or the manager – was
trying to comfort her.

‘It's not as if he killed
himself for you, is it? It's not your fault, you never refused him
anything.'

Maigret did not lift up the blanket, did
not even make Céline aware of his presence.

A few moments later, the body was
carried out to the ambulance, which set off in the direction of the mortuary.

Then, gradually, the crowd in Rue
Pigalle dispersed. The
last stragglers
didn't even know whether there had been a fire, a suicide or the arrest of a
pickpocket.

He was whistling … and suddenly everything went quiet.

Slowly, slowly Maigret climbed the
staircase of the Place des Vosges and, as he reached the second floor, he
scowled.

Old Mathilde's door was ajar. She
was probably lurking behind it, spying. But he shrugged and pulled the bell cord by
the Martins' front door.

He had his pipe in his mouth. For a
second he considered putting it in his pocket, then, once again, he shrugged.

The sound of bottles clinking. A vague
murmur. Two male voices coming closer and at last the door opened.

‘Very good,
doctor … Yes, doctor … Thank you, doctor.'

A crushed Monsieur Martin, who had not
yet had time to get dressed and whom Maigret found in the same sorry get-up as that
morning.

‘It's you?'

The doctor headed for the staircase
while Monsieur Martin showed the inspector in, glancing furtively in the direction
of the bedroom.

‘Is she worse?'

‘We don't
know … The doctor won't say … He'll be back this
evening.'

He picked up a prescription that was
lying on top of the wireless, and stared at it with vacant eyes.

‘I don't even have anyone to
send to the pharmacy!'

‘What happened?'

‘More or less the same as last
night, but more violent.
She began
shivering, mumbling incoherently … I sent for the doctor and he tells me
she has a temperature of nearly forty.'

‘Is she delirious?'

‘You can't understand
anything she says, I tell you! We need ice and a rubber pouch to place on her
forehead.'

‘Do you want me to stay here while
you go to the pharmacy?'

Monsieur Martin was about to say no,
then he resigned himself.

He put on an overcoat and left,
gesticulating, a tragic and grotesque figure, and then came back because he had
forgotten to take any money.

Maigret had no ulterior motive for
remaining in the apartment. He showed no interest in anything, didn't open a
single drawer, didn't even glance at a pile of correspondence sitting on a
table.

He could hear the patient's
irregular breathing. From time to time she gave a long sigh, then babbled a jumble
of syllables.

When Monsieur Martin came back, he found
him in the same spot.

‘Have you got everything you
need?'

‘Yes … This is
terrible! … And I haven't even let my office know!'

Maigret helped him break up the ice and
put it in a red rubber pouch.

‘And yet you didn't have any
visitors this morning?'

‘Nobody …'

‘And you didn't receive any
letters?'

‘Nothing … Circulars.'

Madame Martin's forehead was
perspiring and her greying hair was plastered to her temples. Her lips were pale,
but her eyes remained extraordinarily alert.

Did they recognize Maigret, who was
holding the ice-filled pouch on her forehead?

It was impossible to say. But she seemed
to have quietened down a little. She lay still with the red pouch on her forehead,
staring at the ceiling.

The inspector led Monsieur Martin into
the dining room.

‘I've got several pieces of
news for you.'

‘Oh!' he said with a shiver
of anxiety.

‘Couchet's will has been
found. He has left a third of his fortune to your wife.'

‘What?'

And the civil servant floundered,
panic-stricken, overwhelmed by this news.

‘You say he's left
us …?'

‘A third of his fortune!
It's likely that things won't be straightforward. His second wife will
probably contest the will. Because she only receives a third, too. The last third
goes to another person, Couchet's most recent mistress, a certain
Nine—'

Why did Martin seem so crestfallen?
Worse than crestfallen, devastated! As if his arms and legs had been severed! He
stared fixedly at the floor, unable to regain his composure.

‘The second piece of news is not
so good. It concerns your stepson—'

‘Roger?'

‘He
committed suicide this morning, by jumping out of the window of his room in Rue
Pigalle.'

Then he saw the petty official's
hackles rise, as he shot him a look of anger, of rage, and shouted, ‘What are
you telling me? You're trying to drive me mad, aren't you? Admit that
all this is a trick to get me to talk!'

‘Not so loud! Your
wife—'

‘I don't care! You're
lying! It isn't possible.'

He was unrecognizable. In one fell swoop
his shyness, the good manners that were of such importance to him had all deserted
him.

It was strange to see his face
distraught, his lips quivering and his hands waving around in mid-air.

‘I swear to you,' said
Maigret, ‘that both items of news are official.'

‘But why would he have done that?
I tell you, it's enough to drive a person insane! Actually, that's
what's happening! My wife is going mad! You've seen her! And if this
goes on, I'll end up going mad, too. We'll all go mad!'

His eyes were darting around wildly. He
had lost all self-control.

‘Her son jumping out of the
window! And the will—'

His features were tense and suddenly he
burst into tears – it was tragic, comical, horrible.

‘Please! Do calm down—'

‘An entire
lifetime … Thirty-two years … Every day … At nine
o'clock … Never a foot wrong … All that for—'

‘Please … Remember your
wife can hear you, and that she's very unwell—'

‘What
about me? Do you think I'm not unwell too? Do you think I could stand such a
life for long?'

He didn't look the sort to cry,
and that made his tears all the more poignant.

‘It's nothing to do with
you, is it? He's only your stepson. He's not your
responsibility.'

Martin looked at the chief inspector,
suddenly calm, but not for long.

‘He's not my
responsibility—'

He flew off the handle.

‘Even so, I'm the one who
has to deal with all the trouble! You dare to come here telling these stories! On
the stairs, the residents give me strange looks. And I bet they suspect me of
killing that Couchet! Absolutely! And, anyway, how do I know you don't suspect
me as well? What do you want with us? Huh! Huh! You don't answer! You
wouldn't dare answer. People choose the weakest! A man who's unable to
defend himself … And my wife is sick … And—'

As he gesticulated, he banged the
wireless with his elbow. It wobbled and crashed on to the floor amid a tinkle of
broken bulbs.

Then the petty official resurfaced.

‘That wireless cost twelve hundred
francs! … I saved up for three years to buy it.'

A groan came from the bedroom next door.
He listened out, but didn't move.

‘Does your wife need
anything?'

It was Maigret who put his head inside
the bedroom. Madame Martin was still in bed. The inspector met her
gaze and would have been unable to say whether it was a
look of acute intelligence or one clouded by fever.

She did not attempt to speak, but let
him go.

In the dining room, Martin was resting
both elbows on a dresser, holding his head in his hands and staring at the
wallpaper, a few centimetres from his face.

‘Why would he kill
himself?'

‘Suppose for example that it was
he who—'

Silence. A crackling. A strong smell of
burning. Martin hadn't noticed.

‘Is there something on the
stove?' asked Maigret.

He went into the kitchen, blue with
steam. On the gas ring he found a milk pan whose contents had boiled over and which
was about to explode. He turned off the gas, opened the window and caught a glimpse
of the courtyard, Doctor Rivière's Serums laboratory, the director's car
parked in front of the porch. And he could hear the clatter of typewriters in the
offices.

If Maigret was lingering, it was not
without a reason. He wanted to give Martin the time to calm down, even to decide on
an attitude to adopt. He slowly filled his pipe and lit it with an igniter hanging
above the gas stove.