Maigret and the Apparition Read online

  “If anything comes back to you that you have forgotten to tell me, be sure to call me at the Quai des Orfèvres.”

  “I doubt if anything will, but if it does, I promise I’ll let you know. If only those wretched reporters and photographers would go away! They’re the ones that are drawing the crowds.”

  “I’ll see if I can get them to move farther off.”

  As was only to be expected, in spite of the attempts of the policemen to hold them back, they mobbed him the minute he set foot outside the door.

  “May I have your attention, gentlemen! At this stage of the case, I know no more than you do. Inspector Lognon was attacked by persons unknown, in the execution of his duty…”

  “Duty?” someone called out, waggishly.

  “I said in the execution of his duty, and I repeat it. He was gravely wounded, and has been operated on by Professor Mingault at BichatHospital. However, he is not likely to be in any condition to talk for some hours, possibly even for some days.

  “Until that time, there is no point in speculating. In any case, there is nothing more to see here. However, if you care to call at the Quai des Orfèvres this afternoon, I may have further news for you…”

  “What was the inspector doing inside the building? Is it true that a young woman has disappeared?”

  “See you this afternoon!”

  “Have you nothing more to say?”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  With his collar turned up and his hands in his pockets, he plodded away down the avenue. Two or three clicks told him that, for want of a better subject, they were photographing him from behind, and, when he looked back, the reporters were beginning to disperse.

  When he reached Rue Caulaincourt, he went into the first bistro he came to, and, because he felt a little chilly, ordered a hot toddy.

  “Would you be so good as to let me have three telephone jetons!”

  “Did you say three?”

  He gulped down a generous mouthful of his toddy before going into the telephone booth. His first call was to the hospital. As he had expected, he was switched from one extension to another before being connected with the matron of the surgical wing.

  “No, he’s not dead. One of our house physicians is with him at present, and one of your inspectors is waiting outside in the corridor. There is still no firm prognosis. Ah! Here’s another of your men just coming into my office…”

  Resignedly, he hung up, and dialed the headquarters number.

  “Has Lapointe come in yet?”

  “He’s been trying to reach you at Avenue Junot. I’ll put him on for you.”

  Through the glass panes of the booth Maigret could see the zinc counter, and the proprietor in his shirt sleeves pouring, two large glasses of red wine for a couple of workmen.

  “Are you there, Chief? I had no difficulty in finding the beauty salon, since it’s the only one on Avenue Matignon. It’s very luxurious. Apparently, there’s a man working there by the name of Marcellin, whom all the ladies speak of with bated breath… Marinette Augier didn’t come in to work today, which surprised her colleagues, because she is usually so very punctual and conscientious…

  “She never confided in anyone about her relationship with the inspector… She has a married brother, who lives in Vanves, but they don’t know his address. He works for an insurance company, and Marinette sometimes used to phone him at his office. The firm is the Fraternal Assurance… I looked it up in the telephone book. It has offices in Rue Le Peletier…

  “I thought I ought to ask you before going there…”

  “Is Janvier there?”

  “He’s busy typing a report.”

  “Ask him if it’s urgent. I’m most anxious that you should get some rest, so that you’ll be fresh when I need you…”

  A brief silence at the end of the line. Then Lapointe’s voice, sounding resigned:

  “He says it’s not urgent.”

  “In that case, put him in the picture, will you? I want him to go to Rue Le Peletier and see if he can get a lead on where Marinette might be hiding herself…”

  The little café was filling up, mostly with regulars. They were served with their usual drinks, without having to order. Several of the customers had recognized him and were darting inquisitive glances toward the glassed-in phone booth.

  He had to look up Lognon’s number. As he had expected, it was Madame Maigret who answered.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Shh!… For heaven’s sake, don’t tell her that I’m within a few yards of her apartment. How is she?”

  His wife hesitated. He could guess why.

  “I suppose she’s in bed, and feeling worse than her husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you got a meal ready for her?”

  “I had to go out and do some shopping first.”

  “So she can be left?”

  “Not if she can help it!”

  “Whether she likes it or not, tell her I need you here, and meet me as soon as you can at Chez Manière.”

  “Are you inviting me out to lunch?”

  She could scarcely believe her ears. They did occasionally go out for dinner on a weekend, but hardly ever for lunch, and certainly not when he was busy on a case.

  The Chief Superintendent, returning to the bar to finish his drink, noticed that the spontaneity had gone out of the voices around him. This was the price of all the publicity foisted on him by the press, which was so often a handicap in his work.

  Someone, avoiding his eye, said:

  “Is it true that old Grumpy has been shot by gangsters?”

  Another voice, deliberately trying to sound mysterious, replied:

  “If it really was gangsters.”

  So, rumors were already rife in the district regarding the inspector’s relationship with Marinette. Maigret paid for his drink and, with all eyes upon him, went out of the bistro and made his way to Chez Manière.

  It was a brasserie, adjacent to a flight of stone steps. It had once been a popular haunt of local celebrities, and was still patronized by actresses, writers, and painters. It was too early for the regulars to show up. Most of the tables were vacant, and there were not more than four or five customers leaning on the bar.

  He took off his wet coat and hat, and collapsed with a sigh of relief onto the bench nearest the window.

  Looking about him dreamily, he lit his pipe, and had smoked it almost to the end when he spotted Madame Maigret, holding her umbrella like a shield, in the act of crossing the street.

  “It feels so strange, meeting you like this… It must be at least fifteen years since we were here last… It was one evening after the theater. Do you remember?”

  “Yes… What will you have?”

  He handed her the menu.

  “I don’t need to ask what you’re going to have. It will be the andouillette, I’m sure… I wonder if I might venture to let myself go, and have lobster mayonnaise?”

  They sat in silence until the hors d’oeuvre and a bottle of Loire wine were brought to the table. The atmosphere was intimate, with the windows misted and the tables around them empty.

  “I feel almost as if I were one of your colleagues… When you called to say you wouldn’t be home for lunch, I could picture you eating in a place like this with Lucas or Janvier.”

  “It’s just as likely that I would have stayed in my office, and had sandwiches and a glass of beer… Tell me all about it…”

  “I don’t want to sound catty…”

  “Just be your own truthful self.”

  “You’ve often spoken to me about her and her husband. He was always the one you were sorry for, and I’ve sometimes wondered whether you weren’t being a little unfair…”

  “And now?”

  “I’m not as sorry for her as I was, though I daresay she can’t help herself… I found her in bed, attended by the concierge and a neighbor, an old woman who never stops fiddling with the beads of her rosary. They had sent for the doctor because, to look at her, you’d have thought she was dying…”

  “Was she surprised to see you?”

  “You’ll never guess what her first words to me were! She said:

  “‘Well, now at any rate, your husband will have to stop persecuting him. I daresay, by this time, he’s sorry he obstructed Charles’s promotion to a job at headquarters.’

  “At first, I felt very uncomfortable… And then, quite by chance, the doctor called. He’s small, elderly, and placid, and he has a mischievous twinkle in his eye…

  “The concierge returned to her lodge. The old lady, still fidgeting with her beads, followed me into the dining room.

  “ ‘Poor soul!’ she said. ‘What sorry, weak creatures we are, when it comes down to it! When one thinks of all that is going on around us, one is almost afraid to set foot outside one’s own door.’

  “I asked her how serious Madame Lognon’s illness was, and she said that her legs were so weak that she could scarcely stand. It was something to do with her bones, she thought.”

  They couldn’t help exchanging smiles. The contrast between lunching at home on Avenue Richard Lenoir and in the intimate atmosphere of the little restaurant struck them both at the same time. Madame Maigret especially was tremendously thrilled by it. Her eyes sparkled and her color rose as she spoke.

  When lunching or dining at home, it was usually Maigret who did all the talking, since she had little of interest to relate. On this occasion, she was relishing the opportunity of being useful to him.

  “Is all this really of interest to you?”

  “Very much so. Go on.”

  “After he had finished examining her, the doctor beckoned to me to follow him to the entrance hall, and we stood there talking in whispers. He began by asking me if I really was the wife of Chief Superintendent Maigret. He seemed very surprised to find me there.

  “I explained… Well you can guess what I said to him…”

  “ ‘I understand how you feel,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s most generous of you… But allow me to give you a word of warning… While I don’t claim that she has the constitution of an ox, I can assure you that she is very far from being seriously ill… I have attended her for ten years… And I’m not the only one!

  “ ‘She is forever calling in one or another of my professional colleagues, hoping against hope that one of them will find something seriously wrong with her. But, whenever I dare suggest that she should consult a psychiatrist or a neurologist, she grows indignant, and says she is not mad, and that I don’t know the rudiments of my job…

  “ ‘Perhaps her marriage has not turned out as she had hoped. At any rate, there is no doubt that she is deeply resentful of the fact that her husband has not made more progress in his career.

  “ ‘And, by way of revenge, she plays the helpless invalid, to force him to attend to all her needs, do the housework, and, in general, lead a life that, by any standards, is intolerable…

  “‘You came to see her this morning. All well and good. But if you show yourself too willing, she’ll latch on to you with all her strength…

  “ ‘I telephoned Bichat in her presence, and I was able to assure her that her husband’s chances of recovery were excellent… I laid it on a bit thick… But it made no difference… She had no sympathy to spare for her husband, only for herself…’”

  The andouillette, with fried potatoes, and half a lobster coated with mayonnaise were brought to the table. Maigret refilled their glasses.

  “After you called me, I told her that I would have to leave her for an hour or two, and she retorted, sourly:

  “ ‘Naturally, your husband needs you. All men are the same…’

  ‘Then, abruptly changing the subject, she went on:

  “ ‘When I am a widow, my pension won’t even stretch to keeping this apartment, where I have lived for twenty-five years.’ ”

  “Did she make any mention of there being another woman in Lognon’s life?”

  “Only obliquely. She remarked that police service was a degrading occupation, involving, as it did, hobnobbing with riffraff of every sort, prostitutes included.”

  “Did you try to find out whether she’d noticed any change in him of late?”

  “I did, and her reply was:

  “ ‘Ever since I was fool enough to marry him, he’s told me periodically that he’s on to something really big, which will at last bring him the recognition and promotion he deserves…At first, I believed him and rejoiced with him…

  “ ‘But it was always the same; either the big case would fizzle out or someone else would get the credit!’ ”

  Madame Maigret, looking more playful than Maigret could ever remember seeing her, added:

  “I may as well tell you that, judging by the look she gave me as she said this, I was left in no doubt that you were the one she blamed for stealing all the credit… As to recent events, her main complaint is that lately he’s been burdened with more than his fair share of night duty. Is that true?”

  “It was at his own request.”

  “He didn’t admit that to her… Apparently, for the past four or five days, he’s been very self-important, saying that something big was about to happen, and that, this time, the papers would have no choice, whether they liked it or not, but to print his picture on the front page…”

  “Didn’t she try to get any more out of him?”

  “She didn’t believe him, and I daresay she just sneered. Wait a minute, though! She did say something else that struck me as odd. She told me he had said:

  “ ‘People aren’t always what they seem, and if one could see behind the façade, one would find a good many things one wasn’t expecting…’ ”

  They were interrupted at this point by the proprietor, who came to their table to pay his respects and offer them a liqueur on the house. When they were alone again, Madame Maigret asked, a little anxiously:

  “Will you be able to make use of any of this, or have I been wasting your time?”

  Because he was in the middle of lighting his pipe, he made no immediate reply. Besides, he was preoccupied with the germ of an idea beginning to take shape in his mind.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. I fancy that what you have just told me alters the whole complexion of the case…”

  She stared at him, torn between incredulity and delight. For the rest of her life, that lunch at Chez Manière was to remain one of her happiest memories.

  * * *

  Chapter 3: The Loves of Marinette

  « ^ »

  The rain was beginning to abate a little. It was no longer pelting down, beating upon the backs of the unwary. Maigret, gazing out the window, was in no hurry to break up this exceptionally heartwarming lunch-hour tête-à-tête.

  If Lognon had been able to see them, it would merely have inflamed his bitterness.

  “Here am I, lying on my bed of pain, while they take advantage of my plight to meet for lunch like young lovers at Chez Manière, and talk of my poor wife as an old bitch or a half-wit… ”

  A thought struck Maigret, which he would not have claimed to be either original or profound:

  “It’s odd the way a man’s susceptibilities can often cause more complications than his actual shortcomings or the lies he tells…”

  This was particularly true of his own profession. He could recall inquiries that had dragged on for days longer than necessary, sometimes even for weeks, because he dared not put a blunt question to a colleague, or because that colleague was inclined to shy away from certain topics.

  “Are you going back to your office?”

  “I’ll be calling in at Avenue Junot first. What about you?”

  “I think—don’t you?—that if I leave her on her own, she’ll accuse you of neglect, of letting her lie there unattended, while her husband, as a result of his devotion to duty, is dying.”

  It was true. Madame Lognon, who did not live up to her angelic name, Solange, was quite capable of complaining volubly to the reporters who would soon be thronging to her door, and heaven alone could tell what the newspapers would make of it.

  “Still, you can’t possibly spend all your days and nights with her until such time as he may recover. You’d better see if you can come to some arrangement with the old girl with the rosary.”

  “Her name is Mademoiselle Papin.”

  “I daresay that, for a small consideration, she could be persuaded to spend a few hours a day in the apartment. If worst comes to worst, you could always engage a nurse.”

  By the time they left the restaurant, only a few sparse drops of rain were falling. They parted in Place Constantin-Pecqueur. Slowly, Maigret walked back along Avenue Junot, and spotted Inspector Chinquier coming out of one house and ringing the bell next door.

  This was another delicate job, often with disappointing results. One disturbed people in the peace of their own homes, people to whom the very word “police” was unsettling and harassing, to probe into their little private concerns.

  “Would you mind telling me whether, last night…”

  Everyone already knew that there had been an attempted murder in their own street. Doubtless they felt themselves to be under suspicion. Besides, it was not always pleasant to have to tell a perfect stranger what one had been up to the previous night

  In spite of all this, Maigret would have liked to be in Chinquier’s shoes, because a closer acquaintance with the avenue and its inhabitants, a better understanding of their private lives, would at least have provided him with a context for the dramatic climax, and perhaps even a solution to the puzzle.

  Unfortunately, it was a task that, as a chief superintendent, he could not permit himself to carry out in person, especially because he was already under censure for his propensity to wander off here, there, and everywhere, instead of staying in his office to supervise his subordinates.

  Only one solitary policeman remained on duty outside Marinette’s building. Traces of blood were still visible on the pavement. The reporters and cameramen had disappeared, but the occasional passer-by was still stopping to take a brief look.