Free The Shadow Puppet by Georges Simenon; Translated by Ros Schwartz Page A

for her. One little disagreement
     and she’s seething!’
    With his putty-coloured overcoat,
     carefully waxed moustache and leather gloves, he had been ridiculous. A caricature
     of the pretentious petty official.
    But now the dye had faded from his
     moustache, the look in his eyes was that of a defeated man. He hadn’t had the
     time to shave, and was still wearing his nightshirt under an old jacket.
    And he cut a pathetic figure. He was,
     astonishingly, at least fifty-five.
    â€˜Did something upset her last
     night?’
    â€˜No … No—’
    He became agitated, looking about him,
     panic-stricken.
    â€˜No one came to see her? Her son,
     for example?’
    â€˜No! You came, then we had dinner.
     And then—’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Nothing. I don’t
     know … It just came over her … She’s very sensitive.
     She’s had so much unhappiness in her life!’
    Did he really
     believe what he was saying? Maigret sensed that Martin was trying to convince
     himself.
    â€˜In short, you personally have no
     ideas about the murder?’
    And Martin dropped the cup he was
     holding. Was he of a nervous disposition too?
    â€˜Why would I have any ideas? I
     swear … If I did, I …’
    â€˜You—’
    â€˜I don’t know. It’s a
     terrible business! Just when we’re inundated at the office. I haven’t
     even had the time to inform my boss this morning.’
    He wiped his thin hand across his
     forehead then busied himself picking up the pieces of broken china. He spent ages
     looking for a cloth to clean the wooden floor.
    â€˜If only she’d listened to
     me, we wouldn’t have stayed here.’
    He was afraid, that was patent. He was
     beside himself with fear. But fear of what, fear of whom?
    â€˜You’re a good man,
     aren’t you, Monsieur Martin? And an honest man.’
    â€˜I have thirty-two years’
     service and—’
    â€˜So if you knew something that
     could help the police unmask the culprit, you would feel duty-bound to tell
     me.’
    Were his teeth chattering?
    â€˜I would most definitely do
     so … but I don’t know anything … and I too would like to
     know! This is no life …’
    â€˜What do you think of your
     stepson?’
    Martin stared at Maigret in
     amazement.
    â€˜Roger?
     He’s …’
    â€˜He’s depraved, I
     know!’
    â€˜But he’s not a bad boy, I
     swear. It’s all his father’s fault.
As my wife always says, you shouldn’t give young
     people so much money. She’s right! And as she says I don’t think Couchet
     did it out of generosity or fatherly love, he had no interest in his son. He did it
     to get rid of him, to salve his conscience.’
    â€˜His conscience?’
    Martin turned red, and became even more
     flummoxed.
    â€˜He treated Juliette badly,
     didn’t he?’ he said quietly.
    â€˜Juliette?’
    â€˜My wife, his first wife. What did
     he ever do for her? Nothing! He treated her like a skivvy. And she was the one who
     helped him through the hard times, and later—’
    â€˜He didn’t give her
     anything, obviously. But she had remarried.’
    Martin’s face had turned beetroot.
     Maigret watched him with amazement, and pity. For he realized that the poor man was
     in no way to blame for this staggering story. He was merely repeating what he must
     have heard hundreds of times from his wife.
    Couchet was rich! She was poor! And
     so …
    But the civil servant was straining to
     listen.
    â€˜Did you not hear
     something?’
    They kept quiet for a moment. A faint
     cry was heard coming from the bedroom. Martin went over and opened the door.
    â€˜What are you telling him?’
     asked Madame Martin.
    â€˜But … I—’
    â€˜It’s Inspector Maigret,
     isn’t