Maigret in Vichy (Harvest Book)

  Maigret in Vichy

  Maigret à Vichy

  the 95th episode in the Maigret Saga

  1968

  Georges Simenon

  translated by Eileen Ellenbogen

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  A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0

  click for scan notes and proofing history

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  Contents

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  MAIGRET IN VICHY

  by GEORGES SIMENON

  Translated from the French by Eileen Ellenbogen

  A Helen and Kurt Wolff Book

  Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc.

  New York

  Copyright © 1968 by Georges Simenon

  English translation copyright © 1969 by Hamish Hamilton Ltd. and Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First edition

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-12047

  Printed in the United States of America

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  1

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  Do you know them?” Madame Maigret asked in an undertone, observing that her husband was looking back over his shoulder at the couple who had just gone past.

  The man, too, had turned his head and was smiling. He seemed hesitant, as though considering retracing his steps to shake the Chief Superintendent by the hand.

  “No, I don’t think so… I don’t know…”

  He was a squat little man. His wife, too, was small and plump, though perhaps an inch or so taller. Why was it Maigret had the impression that she was a Belgian? Because of her fair skin, her hair that was almost buttercup yellow, her protuberant blue eyes?

  This was their fifth or sixth encounter. The first time, the man had stopped dead, beaming in delighted surprise. He had stood there uncertainly, as if about to speak, while the Chief Superintendent, frowning, searched his memory in vain.

  There was certainly something familiar about that face and figure, but what the devil was it? Where had he last seen this cheerful little man, with the wife who looked as though she were made of brightly colored marzipan?

  “I really can’t think…”

  It did not much matter. Besides, everybody here was different from the people one met in everyday life. Any minute, now, there would be a burst of music. On the bandstand, with its slender columns and ornate canopy, the uniformed bandsmen, their eyes fixed on the conductor, sat waiting to raise the brass instruments to their lips. This presumably was the Municipal Band, made up of firemen and other Council workers. Their uniform was splendid, with scarlet tabs, white sashes, and enough gold braid and embroidery to satisfy a South American General.

  Hundreds—thousands, it seemed to him—of iron chairs done up with yellow paint were set out in concentric circles around the bandstand, and nearly all were occupied by silent, waiting men and women with solemn faces.

  In a minute or two, at nine o’clock, amid the great trees of the park, the concert would begin. After an oppressively hot day, the evening air seemed almost cool, and a light breeze rustled the leaves. Here and there, lamp standards surmounted by milky globes lightened the dark foliage with patches of paler green.

  “Do you want to sit?”

  There were still a few empty chairs, but they did not avail themselves of them. This evening, as always, they preferred to walk about in a leisurely way. Other couples, like themselves, came and went, half listening to the music, but there was also a number of solitary men and women, almost all elderly.

  Nothing seemed quite real somehow. The white casino, plastered with the ornate moldings so much in vogue at the turn of the century, was floodlit. Except for the occasional blare of a motor horn in Rue Georges-Clemenceau, one could almost believe that here time stood still.

  “There she is…” whispered Madame Maigret, pointing with her chin.

  It had become a sort of game. She had got into the habit of following her husband’s glance, watching for any glimmer of surprise or interest.

  What else was there for them to do with their time? They walked, or rather strolled, about the streets. From time to time they paused, not because they were out of breath, but to look more closely at the play of light on a tree, a house, or a face.

  They felt as though they had been in Vichy since the dawn of time, although, in fact, this was only their fifth day. Already they had established a routine, to which they adhered rigorously, as though it really mattered, and their days were given up to a succession of rituals, which they performed with the utmost solemnity.

  How seriously, in fact, did Maigret take it all? His wife sometimes wondered, stealing a covert glance at him, trying to read his mind. He was not the man he was in Paris. His walk was less brisk, his features were less drawn. He went about most of the time smiling but abstracted. His expression suggested a degree of satisfaction, certainly, but also, perhaps, a touch of sardonic self-mockery.

  “She’s wearing her white shawl.”

  Each new day found them in the same place at the same hour, in one of the shaded park walks, beside the Allier, on a boulevard lined with plane trees, or in a crowded or a deserted side street, and, because of this, they had come to recognize, here and there, a face or a figure, and these were already getting to be part of their world.

  Was it not the case that everyone here was going through the same motions at the same time every hour of the day, and not just at the mineral springs, where they all forgathered for the hallowed glass of water?

  Maigret’s eyes rested on a figure in the crowd, and sharpened. His wife followed his glance.

  “Is she a widow, do you think?”

  They might well have christened her “the lady in mauve,” or rather “the lady in lilac,” because that was the color she always wore. Tonight she must have arrived late, because she was sitting in one of the back rows.

  The previous evening, at about eight o’clock, the Maigrets had come upon her unexpectedly as they were walking past the bandstand. There was still an hour to go before the concert. The little yellow chairs were so neatly arranged in concentric rings that they might have been circles drawn with a compass. All the chairs were vacant except one, in the front row, where the lady in lilac was sitting. There was something pathetic about her. She did not attempt to read by the light of the nearby lamp. She was not knitting. She was not doing anything. She did not seem in the least restless. She sat motionless, very upright, with her hands lying flat in her lap, looking straight in front of her, like a public figure avoiding the stares of the crowd.

  She could have come straight out of a picture book. Unlike most of the women here, who went about bareheaded, she wore a white hat. The filmy shawl draped over her shoulders was white too. Her dress was of that distinctive lilac color that she seemed so much attached to.

  She had an unusually long, narrow face and thin lips.

  “She must be an old maid, don’t you think?”

  Maigret was unwilling to commit himself. He was not conducting an inquiry or following a trail. Here he was under no obligation to study people’s faces, hoping that they would reveal the truth about themselves.

  All the same, every now and then he caught himself doing it. He could not help it. It had become second nature. For no reason at all, he would find himself taking an interest in someone in the crowd, trying to guess his occupation, his domestic circumstances, the kind of life he led when he was not taking the waters.

  It was by no means easy.
After the first few days, sometimes after the first few hours, everyone seemed to become assimilated. Almost all wore the same expression of slightly vacant serenity, except those who were seriously ill, and who stood out from the rest by virtue of their deformities, their painful movements, and, still more, the unmistakable look in their eyes of pain tempered with hope.

  The lady in lilac was one of what might be described as Maigret’s circle of intimates, one of those who had attracted his attention and intrigued him from the first.

  It was hard to guess her age. She might be forty-five or fifty-five. Time had not imprinted any telltale lines on her face.

  She gave the impression of a woman accustomed to silence, like a nun, used to solitude, even perhaps enjoying it. Whether walking or, as at present, sitting, she totally ignored the people around her. No doubt it would have surprised her to know that Chief Superintendent Maigret, not as a matter of professional duty but simply for his own satisfaction, was studying her, in the hope of finding out what she was really like.

  “She’s never lived with a man, I’d say,” he replied, as the opening burst of music came from the bandstand.

  “Nor with children. Perhaps with someone very old, though. She might, perhaps, have had an aged mother to look after.”

  If so, she was unlikely to have been a good nurse, since she appeared unbending and unsociable. If she failed to see the people around her, it was because she did not look at them. She looked inward. She looked within herself, seeing no one but herself, deriving, no doubt, some secret satisfaction from this self-absorption.

  “Shall we go?”

  They had not come to listen to the music. They had simply got into the habit of walking past the bandstand at this time of the evening. Besides, it was not every night that there was a concert. Some evenings, it was virtually deserted on this side of the park. They strolled across the park, turning right into the colonnade which ran beside a street brilliant with neon signs. They could see hotels, restaurants, shops, a cinema. They had not yet been to the cinema. It did not fit in with their timetable.

  There were other people taking a walk like themselves, at more or less the same leisurely pace, some coming, some going. A few had cut short their walk to go to the casino theater. They were late, and could be seen hurrying in, one or two here and there in evening dress.

  Every one of these people lived quite a different life somewhere else, in a district of Paris, in some little provincial town, in Brussels, Amsterdam, Rome, or Philadelphia.

  Each was a part of some predetermined social order, with its own rules, taboos, and passwords. Some were rich, others poor. Some were so ill that the treatment could do no more than give them a little extra time; others felt that, after taking the cure, they could forget about their health for the rest of the year.

  This place was a kind of melting pot. Maigret’s own case was typical. It had all started one evening when they were dining with the Pardons. Madame Pardon had served canard au sang, a dish that she made to perfection, and which the Chief Superintendent particularly relished.

  “Is there anything wrong with it?” she had asked anxiously, seeing that Maigret had barely tasted it.

  Surprised, Pardon had turned to his guest and subjected him to a searching look. Then, sounding really worried, he had asked:

  “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “Just a twinge… It’s nothing…”

  The doctor, however, had not failed to notice his friend’s unwonted pallor, and the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  The subject was not mentioned again during dinner. The Chief Superintendent had scarcely touched his wine, and when, over coffee, he was offered a glass of old Armagnac, he had waved it away:

  “Not tonight, if you don’t mind.”

  It was not until some time later that Doctor Pardon had said quietly:

  “Let’s go into my consulting room, shall we?”

  Maigret had agreed reluctantly. He had known for some time that this was bound to happen, but he had kept putting it off from one day to the next. Doctor Pardon’s consulting room was small and by no means luxurious. His stethoscope lay on the desk amid a litter of bottles, jars, and papers, and the couch on which he examined his patients sagged in the middle, as though the last one had left the imprint of his body on it.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Maigret?”

  “I don’t know. It’s my age, I daresay.”

  “How old are you? Fifty-two?”

  “Fifty-three… I’ve had a lot on my hands lately. Work… Worry… No sensational cases… Nothing exciting… Just the opposite… On the one hand, a flood of paperwork arising out of the reorganization at the Law Courts… On the other, an epidemic of assaults on young girls and women living alone, in some cases including rape, in some not… The press is howling for blood, and I haven’t the staff to put on full-scale patrols without disrupting my whole department…”

  “Do you suffer from indigestion?”

  “I do occasionally have stomach cramps… pains… as I did tonight… or rather a kind of constriction in the chest and abdomen… I feel leaden… tired.”

  “Would you mind if I had a look at you?”

  His wife, in the next room, must have guessed, Madame Pardon too, and this bothered Maigret. He had a horror of anything to do with illness.

  As he stripped off his tie, jacket, shirt, and undershirt, he recalled something he had said when he was still in his teens : “I’d rather die young than live the life of an invalid, all pills and potions and diets, and being made to do this and not being allowed to do that.”

  In his vocabulary, being an invalid meant listening to one’s heart, worrying about one’s stomach, liver, and kidneys, and, at more or less regular intervals, exposing one’s naked body to a doctor.

  He no longer talked glibly of dying young, but he still did not feel ready to enter the invalid state.

  “My trousers too?”

  “Just pull them down a little.”

  Pardon took his blood pressure, listened to his chest, felt his diaphragm and stomach, pressing here and there with a finger.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No… A little tenderness there, I think… No… lower down…”

  Well, here he was, behaving just like anyone else, apprehensive, ashamed of his own cowardice, afraid to look his old friend in the face. Awkwardly, he began putting on his clothes again. When Pardon spoke, there was no change in his voice:

  “When did you last take a holiday?”

  “Last year I managed to get away for a week, then I was recalled because…”

  “What about the year before last?”

  “I couldn’t leave Paris.”

  “Considering the life you lead, you ought to be in very much worse shape than you are.”

  “What about my liver?”

  “It has stood up valiantly, considering the way you’ve treated it… Admittedly, it’s slightly enlarged, but it’s in excellent working order.”

  “What’s wrong, then?”

  “There’s nothing precisely wrong… A little of everything… You’re overtired, there’s no doubt about that, and it will take more than a week’s holiday to put that right… How do you feel when you wake up in the morning?”

  “Like a bear with a sore head.”

  Pardon laughed.

  “Do you sleep well?”

  “According to my wife, I thrash about in bed, and occasionally talk in my sleep.”

  “I see you’re not smoking.”

  “I’m trying to cut down on it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know… I’m trying to cut down on drink, too.”

  “Sit down, won’t you?”

  Pardon sat in the chair behind his desk. Here, in his consulting room, he was very much the medical man, quite different from the host entertaining in his drawing room or dining room.

  “Just you listen to me. You’re not ill. As a matter of fact, considering your age a
nd the life you lead, you’re quite remarkably fit. I’ll thank you to get that into your head once and for all. Stop fretting about every little twinge and odd pain here and there, and don’t start worrying every time you go up a flight of stairs…”

  “How did you know?”

  “Tell me, when you’re questioning a suspect, how do you know?”

  They were both smiling.

  “Here we are in June. Paris is sweltering. You’ll oblige me by taking a holiday at once, if possible leaving no forwarding address… At any rate, I’m sure you’ll have the good sense not to call up the Quai des Orfèvres every day…”

  “I daresay it could be managed,” Maigret said, not very graciously. “There’s our cottage at Meung-sur-Loire…”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy that when you retire… This year, I have other plans for you… Do you know Vichy at all?”

  “I’ve never set foot in the place, in spite of the fact that I was born within forty miles of it, near Moulins… But in those days, of course, not everyone owned a car…

  “That reminds me, has your wife passed her test?”

  “We’ve actually got as far as buying a small car.”

  “I don’t think you could do better than take the waters at Vichy. It will do you a world of good… A thorough clean-out of the system…”

  When he saw the look on the Chief Superintendent’s face, he almost burst out laughing.

  “You want me to take the cure?”

  “It will only mean drinking a few pints of water every day… I don’t suppose the specialist will insist on your having all the trimmings: mud baths, mineral baths, vibro-massage, and all that nonsense. There’s nothing seriously wrong with you. Three weeks of rest and regular exercise, no worry…”

  “No beer, no wine, nothing to eat but rabbit’s food…”

  “You’ve had a good many years of eating and drinking whatever you fancied, haven’t you?”

  “That’s true,” he had to admit.

  “And you have many more ahead, even if you do have to be a little more moderate in the future… Are we agreed, then?”