Maigret and the Madwoman Read online

  Maigret and the Madwoman

  La folle de Maigret

  the 100th episode in the Maigret Saga

  1970

  Georges Simenon

  translated by Eileen Ellenbogen

  * * *

  3S XHTML edition 1.0

  scan notes and proofing history

  * * *

  Contents

  |1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|

  * * *

  Copyright © 1970 by Georges Simenon English translation copyright © 1972 by Georges Simenon

  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 American edition

  Originally published in French under the title La Folle de Maigret

  ISBN 0-15-155138-3

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 72-75421

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Maigret and the Madwoman

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Flanking the main gate of Police Headquarters, Officer Picot stood guard on the left, and his old friend Latuile on the right. It was about ten o’clock on a fine morning in May. The sunlight was dazzling, and Paris was aglow with color, like a pastel drawing.

  Picot could not have said exactly when he first noticed her. It did not seem important at the time. She was a tiny old woman, in a white hat, white cotton gloves, and a dress of gun-metal gray. Her legs were very thin and slightly bowed with age.

  Had she been carrying a shopping basket or a handbag? He could not remember. He had not been aware of her approach. She was only a few feet away from him, standing on the sidewalk, peering at the rows of little cars parked in the forecourt of Police Headquarters.

  Not that sightseers were uncommon at the Quai des Orfèvres, but mostly they were tourists. She drew nearer, went right up to the gate, inspected one of the policemen from top to toe, then turned and made off in the direction of the Pont-Neuf.

  Picot was on duty again the following morning, and at about the same time as on the previous day he saw her once more. This time, after some considerable hesitation, she came up and spoke to him.

  “This is the place where Chief Superintendent Maigret has his office, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, madame. On the second floor.”

  She raised her head and gazed up at the windows. She had very delicate, finely modeled features, and her clear gray eyes had a look of permanent puzzlement.

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  She went on her way with little mincing steps. This time he noticed that she was carrying a string shopping bag, which would seem to indicate that she lived somewhere nearby.

  On the third day Picot was off duty. His replacement paid no attention to the little old woman, who sidled through into the forecourt. She wandered around for a minute or two and then went in through the door on the left and began climbing the stairs. On the second floor she stopped and peered down the long corridor, apparently feeling a little lost.

  Old Joseph, the messenger, went up to her and asked, in his friendly way, if he could be of any assistance.

  “I’m looking for Chief Superintendent Maigret’s office.”

  “Do you wish to see the Chief Superintendent?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Looking very downcast, she shook her head.

  “Can’t I see him without an appointment?”

  “Would you care to leave a message?”

  “I must speak to him personally. It’s terribly important.”

  “If you’ll fill in one of these forms, I’ll see if the Chief Superintendent can see you.”

  She sat down at a table covered with a green baize cloth. They had just had the decorators in, and the whole building smelled strongly of paint. Unaware of this, she was struck by the cheerful look of things: not at all what one would have expected of a Government Department.

  Having filled in one form, she then proceeded to tear it up. She wrote slowly, composing her sentences with great care and underlining a word here and there. A second form followed the first into the wastepaper basket, and then a third. It was not until after her fourth attempt that she appeared satisfied. She went over to Joseph with the form.

  “You’ll see that it’s handed to him personally, won’t you?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “He’s probably very busy.”

  “Very.”

  “Do you think he’ll see me?”

  “I couldn’t say, madame.”

  She was at least eighty-five, eighty-six or seven perhaps, and as light and slender as a girl. Age had fined her down, and her delicate skin was translucent. She looked up at Joseph, goodhearted fellow that he was, and gave him a shy smile, anxious to win him over.

  “You will do your best, won’t you? It’s so terribly important to me!”

  “Take a seat, madame.”

  He went up to one of the doors and knocked. Maigret was in conference with Janvier and Lapointe, who were both standing by the window, which was wide open, letting in all the hubbub of the street outside.

  Maigret took the form from Joseph, glanced at it, and frowned.

  “What’s she like?”

  “A very respectable old lady. A little shy. She was most insistent that she see you.”

  On the dotted line at the top of the form she had written her name in a surprisingly firm, neat hand:

  Madame Antoine de Caramê

  And below, the address:

  8B Quai de la Mégisserie

  She stated as the object of her visit:

  The caller has something of the utmost importance to communicate to Chief Superintendent Maigret. It is a matter of life and death.

  Here the handwriting was more shaky and the words irregularly spaced. “Chief Superintendent” and “utmost importance” were underlined. “A matter of life and death” was underscored twice.

  “Is she mad?” muttered Maigret, sucking at his pipe.

  “That isn’t how she strikes me. She seems very quiet and composed.”

  Everyone at the Quai des Orfèvres had at some time or other had to deal with letters from lunatics or cranks, and the underlining of words was a characteristic of most of them.

  “You’d better see her, Lapointe. Unless someone does, we’ll have her calling here every day.”

  A few minutes later the old woman was ushered into the little office at the back. Lapointe was waiting there alone, standing near the window.

  “Please come in, madame. Take a seat.”

  She looked him up and down in some bewilderment.

  “Are you his son?”

  “Whose son?”

  “The Chief Superintendent’s.”

  “No, madame. My name is Inspector Lapointe.”

  “But you’re only a boy!”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  And so he was. Nevertheless, he didn’t look a day over twenty-two and was more like most people’s idea of a student than a police officer.

  “It was Chief Superintendent Maigret I asked to see.”

  “Unfortunately he can’t spare the time at the moment.”

  She hesitated, standing in the doorway, fidgeting with her white handbag, uncertain whether to stay or go.

  “What if I were to come back tomorrow?”

  “He still couldn’t see you.”

  “Doesn’t Chief Superintendent Maigret ever grant interviews?”

  “Only in very special cases.”

&n
bsp; “Mine is a very special case. Just that. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “So you said on the form.”

  “Well, then?”

  “If you will tell me what it’s all about, I’ll report to the Chief and let him be the judge.”

  “Do you think he might agree to see me?”

  “I can’t promise, but he very well might.”

  She remained standing for quite some time, pondering the pros and cons, and then, apparently having made up her mind, sat down on the edge of a chair facing Lapointe, who was now seated at the desk.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “I should explain, first of all, that I’ve lived in the same apartment on the Quai de la Mégisserie for the past forty-two years. On the ground floor there’s a man who sells birds. In the summer, when he puts all the cages out on the sidewalk, I can hear them all day long. It’s company for me.”

  “You said you were in some sort of danger, I think.”

  “I’m in danger all right, but I suppose you think I’m driveling. The young always seem to imagine that old people aren’t quite right in the head.”

  “No such thought ever occurred to me.”

  “I don’t quite know how to put this. My second husband died twelve years ago, and since then I’ve been by myself in the apartment, and no one but me ever has a reason to go into it. It’s too big for me now, really, but I’ve set my heart on living my time out there. I’m eighty-six, and I can still manage the cooking and housework without any help.”

  “Do you keep a pet? A dog or a cat?”

  “No. As I said, I can always hear the birds singing. My apartment is on the second floor, just above the shop.”

  “What is it that’s worrying you?”

  “It’s hard to say. At least four times in the past two weeks, I’ve noticed that my things have been moved.”

  “What do you mean? Are you saying that after you’ve been out, you’ve come back to find your things disturbed?”

  “That’s right. A frame hanging slightly crooked or a vase turned around. That sort of thing.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “There you are, you see! Because I’m an old woman, you think I’m wandering in my wits. I did tell you, don’t forget, that I’ve lived forty-two years in that same apartment. Naturally, if anything is out of place, I spot it at once.”

  “Has anything been stolen? Have you missed anything?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Do you keep money in the apartment?”

  “Very little. Just enough to meet my monthly expenses. My first husband was in local government. I still draw a pension from City Hall. Besides that I have a Post Office Savings Account.”

  “Do you have valuables, jewelry, art objects, anything of that sort?”

  “I have things that are of value to me, but I doubt if they’re worth much in terms of cash.”

  “Were there any other signs of an intruder, such as a damp footprint, for instance?”

  “There hasn’t been a drop of rain for the past ten days.”

  “Cigarette ashes?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever given anyone a key to your apartment?”

  “No. I have the only key, and I always keep it in my bag.”

  It was difficult for him to conceal his embarrassment.

  “In other words, all it amounts to is that, from time to time, you find some of your things not precisely as you left them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve never caught any unauthorized person in the apartment?”

  “Never.”

  “And you don’t have any idea who the intruder might be?”

  “None.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “Much to my sorrow, I never had a child.”

  “Any other relations?”

  “One niece. She’s a masseuse. I don’t see her very often, though she doesn’t live far from me, just across the river.”

  “What about friends? Men friends, women friends?”

  “Most of the people I used to know are dead. And there’s something else, too.”

  She said it quite casually. There was no underlying note of hysteria, and her bright glance never wavered.

  “I’m being followed.”

  “In the street, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you actually seen the person who’s following you?”

  “Whenever I stop suddenly and look back there’s someone there, but not always the same person. I don’t know who it can be.”

  “Do you go out much?”

  “Every morning. I go out at about eight to do my shopping. I miss Les Halles very much, now that they’ve been moved. It was so convenient, just around the corner, and old habits die hard. Since then I’ve shopped around a bit locally, but it will never be the same.”

  “Is it a man who’s following you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I presume you get back at about ten?”

  “Thereabouts. And then I sit by the window and shell peas, or whatever.”

  “Do you stay in, in the afternoon?”

  “Only when the weather’s bad. I like to get a bit of fresh air whenever I can. Usually I sit on a park bench, preferably in the TuileriesGardens. I have my own favorite bench. I’m not the only one. People of my age are like that, you know. I see the same old faces there, year in, year out.”

  “Are you followed as far as the Tuileries?”

  “Only part of the way, so he can make sure I won’t be coming back right away, I think.”

  “Have you ever done that?”

  “Three times. I pretended I’d forgotten something and turned back.”

  “And, needless to say, you found no one there?”

  “That doesn’t alter the fact that on other occasions my things have been moved. Someone has it in for me, though I can’t think why. I’ve never done any harm to anyone. There may be more than one person involved.”

  “You said your husband was in local government. What did he do?”

  “He was the Council Clerk. He had very heavy responsibilities. Unfortunately, he died young, of a heart attack. He was just forty-five.”

  “And you married again?”

  “Not till almost ten years later. My second husband was chief buyer at the Hôtel de Ville department store. He was in charge of agricultural implements and tools in general.”

  “Is he dead,too?”

  “He’d been retired for some years when he died. If he’d lived, he’d have been ninety-two.”

  “When did he die?”

  “I thought I told you. Twelve years ago.”

  “Did he have any family? Was he a widower when you married him?”

  “He had only one son. He lives in Venezuela.”

  “I’ll tell you what, madame. I’d better go and report all you’ve just told me to the Chief Superintendent.”

  “Do you think he’ll agree to see me?”

  “If he does, he’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Do you have my address?”

  “It’s on the form you filled in, isn’t it?”

  “That’s true, I’d forgotten. The thing is, you see, I think the world of him. It seems to me he’s the only one who could possibly understand. I don’t mean any disrespect to you, but you do seem a bit on the young side to me.”

  He accompanied her to the door and down the long corridor to the top of the main staircase.

  When he got back to Maigret’s office, Janvier was no longer there.

  “Well?”

  “I think you’re right, Chief. She must be a bit cracked. All the same, you wouldn’t think so. She’s very soft-spoken, very cool and self-possessed. She’s eighty-six, and all I can say is, I hope I’ll be as alert as she is when I get to be her age.”

  “What about this threat or whatever it is that’s hanging over her head?”

  “She’s lived in the same apartm
ent on the Quai de la Mégisserie for more than forty years. She’s been married twice. She claims that, while she’s out, some of her things get moved.”

  Maigret relit his pipe.

  “What sorts of things?”

  “Picture frames hanging crooked, vases turned back to front…”

  “Does she have a dog or a cat?”

  “No. She makes do with birdsong. Apparently there’s a man who sells birds on the ground floor.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. She was convinced that she’s being followed.”

  “Has she actually seen anyone following her?”

  “No, that’s just it. But she seems to have an obsession about it.”

  “Will she be coming back?”

  “She’s set her heart on seeing you personally. She talks about you as if you were the Good Lord Himself. You’re the only one, it seems, who could possibly understand. What should I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She’s sure to be back.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile, you might go to have a word with the concierge.”

  Maigret turned his attention once more to the file that he had been reading, and young Lapointe went back to the inspectors’ duty room.

  “Was she a nut case?” Janvier asked.

  “Probably, but a very unusual one.”

  “Do you know many nut cases?”

  “One of my aunts is a patient in a mental hospital.”

  “The old girl seems to have made quite an impression on you.”

  “She did, in a way. To her I’m just a kid, who couldn’t possibly understand her problem. She’s pinned all her hopes on Maigret.”

  That same afternoon Lapointe strolled along the Quai de la Mégisserie, where almost every shopwindow was filled with birds and other small pets. Because of the glorious weather, there were tables and chairs on the sidewalk outside every café. When he got to number 8B, Lapointe looked up at the second-floor windows and saw that they were wide open. He had some difficulty in finding the lodge, which was across a courtyard at the back of the building. The concierge was sitting in a patch of sunlight darning a pair of men’s socks.