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Authors: Georges Simenon
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one or two photographers. The two hearses were drawn up in front of the house, first Juliette Boynet’s and then Cécile’s. Madame “Saving-Your-Presence,” saying that it was the least they could do, had organized a collection among the tenants for a wreath.
To our landlady, who will be sadly missed.
Beside the Monfilses, representing the family of Juliette Boynet, née Cazenove, there was another group representing the deceased husband, the Boynets and the Machepieds, who lived in Paris.
The two rival factions glowered at one another. Boynet and Machepied also claimed that they had been robbed, saying that the old woman had promised, after her husband’s death, that part of her fortune would one day revert to his relations. They had turned up in force the previous night at police headquarters and, as they were persons of some standing, one of them being a city councilor, had been received by the Chief Commissioner himself.
“Tell me, Maigret…these gentlemen claim that there is a will. I’ve told them again and again that the apartment has been thoroughly searched, but it makes no difference.”
They had a grudge against Maigret, they had a grudge against Monfils, they had a grudge against Juliette. In other words, everyone felt cheated, Gérard Pardon most of all. He spoke not a word to anyone, and looked more distraught than ever.
Having no money, he had not been able to afford mourning clothes. Instead of an overcoat, he wore an old khaki mackintosh with a black armband.
His sister Berthe kept close to him, troubled at seeing him so agitated. She was a plump little thing, pretty and well groomed. She had not thought it necessary to buy a dark hat instead of the cherry-red confection she was wearing.
Monsieur Dandurand was also present, accompanied by four or five very self-assured gentlemen, all expensively dressed and wearing numerous flashing rings, who had turned up in a sumptuous limousine. The Siveschis, too, were there in force, except for the mother, who was still in bed. Madame Piéchaud, the grocer, had left Madame Benoit in charge of the shop for a few minutes while she went upstairs and sprinkled holy water on the coffins.
The undertaker, who was anyway on edge because he had another funeral at eleven, could not make head or tail of the various factions, and was quite unable to ascertain who was representing the family officially. And the presence of the photographers was an added cause for alarm.
“Wait a minute, gentlemen, I beg you…Can’t you at least wait until the procession has formed!”
The last thing he wanted was a photograph of a chaotic procession in the papers!
Fingers were pointed at Maigret, but he appeared not to notice. As the two coffins were being brought out, he touched Gérard Pardon on the shoulder. The young man gave a start.
“Could you spare me a minute?” he whispered, taking him aside.
“What do you want this time?”
“Your wife must have told you that I called on her yesterday while you were out.”
“You don’t mean you’ve been searching our hovel!”
He sniggered. It was a painful, grating sound.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
And when the Chief Superintendent replied that he had, Pardon stared at him in horror.
“Believe it or not, when your wife just happened to have her back to me, I took the liberty of digging my fingers into a flowerpot…I’m a bit of a gardener in my spare time, you see, and there was something about those flowers that didn’t look right to me! And look what I found buried in the recently disturbed soil.”
He held out his hand, in the palm of which lay a small key, the key to the front door of Juliette Boynet’s apartment.
“Odd, don’t you think?” he went on. “And here’s a coincidence…when I returned to my office a little while later, I found there was a locksmith waiting to see me, a locksmith who lives not a hundred yards from here, and who wished to inform me that he had cut a key
To our landlady, who will be sadly missed.
Beside the Monfilses, representing the family of Juliette Boynet, née Cazenove, there was another group representing the deceased husband, the Boynets and the Machepieds, who lived in Paris.
The two rival factions glowered at one another. Boynet and Machepied also claimed that they had been robbed, saying that the old woman had promised, after her husband’s death, that part of her fortune would one day revert to his relations. They had turned up in force the previous night at police headquarters and, as they were persons of some standing, one of them being a city councilor, had been received by the Chief Commissioner himself.
“Tell me, Maigret…these gentlemen claim that there is a will. I’ve told them again and again that the apartment has been thoroughly searched, but it makes no difference.”
They had a grudge against Maigret, they had a grudge against Monfils, they had a grudge against Juliette. In other words, everyone felt cheated, Gérard Pardon most of all. He spoke not a word to anyone, and looked more distraught than ever.
Having no money, he had not been able to afford mourning clothes. Instead of an overcoat, he wore an old khaki mackintosh with a black armband.
His sister Berthe kept close to him, troubled at seeing him so agitated. She was a plump little thing, pretty and well groomed. She had not thought it necessary to buy a dark hat instead of the cherry-red confection she was wearing.
Monsieur Dandurand was also present, accompanied by four or five very self-assured gentlemen, all expensively dressed and wearing numerous flashing rings, who had turned up in a sumptuous limousine. The Siveschis, too, were there in force, except for the mother, who was still in bed. Madame Piéchaud, the grocer, had left Madame Benoit in charge of the shop for a few minutes while she went upstairs and sprinkled holy water on the coffins.
The undertaker, who was anyway on edge because he had another funeral at eleven, could not make head or tail of the various factions, and was quite unable to ascertain who was representing the family officially. And the presence of the photographers was an added cause for alarm.
“Wait a minute, gentlemen, I beg you…Can’t you at least wait until the procession has formed!”
The last thing he wanted was a photograph of a chaotic procession in the papers!
Fingers were pointed at Maigret, but he appeared not to notice. As the two coffins were being brought out, he touched Gérard Pardon on the shoulder. The young man gave a start.
“Could you spare me a minute?” he whispered, taking him aside.
“What do you want this time?”
“Your wife must have told you that I called on her yesterday while you were out.”
“You don’t mean you’ve been searching our hovel!”
He sniggered. It was a painful, grating sound.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
And when the Chief Superintendent replied that he had, Pardon stared at him in horror.
“Believe it or not, when your wife just happened to have her back to me, I took the liberty of digging my fingers into a flowerpot…I’m a bit of a gardener in my spare time, you see, and there was something about those flowers that didn’t look right to me! And look what I found buried in the recently disturbed soil.”
He held out his hand, in the palm of which lay a small key, the key to the front door of Juliette Boynet’s apartment.
“Odd, don’t you think?” he went on. “And here’s a coincidence…when I returned to my office a little while later, I found there was a locksmith waiting to see me, a locksmith who lives not a hundred yards from here, and who wished to inform me that he had cut a key
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