happened
â¦â
Mansuy told Maigret the story, his elbows on
the desk, his chin resting on his fists.
âHe left work at six
in the morning, as soon as the first crew arrived. Everything was as usual that morning,
absolutely everything. Heâs a calm, meticulous man. The housewives who rise early
can set their watches by the time he walks past. He goes quietly home, at around six
twenty. He told me all this in detail, sounding like a sleepwalker. The front door opens
directly into the kitchen. Thereâs a chair to the left, a straw-bottomed chair,
youâll see it. His slippers are waiting by the chair.
âHe takes off his shoes, so as not to
wake anyone. He puts a match in the stove, where the fire has been laid, with a sheet of
newspaper and kindling â¦
âThe ground coffee is in the filter of
the cafetière and, as soon as the water in the kettle boils, he pours it over. All
he needs to do is put two lumps of sugar in the floral bowl.
âYouâll see ⦠By the
fireside is a clock with a brass pendulum â¦
âIt is six thirty on the clock when, a
bowl in his hand, he creeps silently into his wifeâs bedroom.
âFor years, each morning, itâs
been the same routine â¦â
Maigret opened the window, even though the
morning air was cool.
âGo on â¦â
âMadame Duffieux is a pale, sickly
woman. She never recovered from the birth of her last child, which doesnât stop
her from trotting around from dawn till dusk ⦠Sheâs a tall and anxious
woman, always tense, always agitated, one of those women who spend their lives expecting
disaster to strike â¦
âShe got dressed while her husband
took off his heavynight clothes. She commented: âItâs
raining ⦠It rained earlier â¦ââ
It was only then that Maigret looked at the
sky, which was still grey.
âThe two of them sat together for half
an hour. Itâs pretty much their only moment of intimacy.
âThen, on the dot of seven, Duffieux
opened a door to go and wake up his daughter.
âThose little houses donât have
shutters. The window at the back overlooking the garden was wide open, as always at this
time of year.
âLucile was dead in her bed, her face
a bluish colour, with big black bruises on her neck â¦
âShall we go over there?â
But he didnât get up yet. He was
waiting. He was still waiting. He couldnât believe that Maigret had nothing to
tell him.
âLetâs go,â was all
Maigret said, with a sigh.
And the street of the outlying district was
exactly as he had imagined it from Mansuyâs description. It was indeed the sort of
street that girls like Lucile come from, with a corner shop that sells vegetables,
groceries, kerosene and sweets, and where the women are on their doorsteps and children
play on the pavements.
There were huddles in the doorways. Women
still in their nightdresses had simply slipped a coat around their shoulders.
Fifty or so people clustered around a little
house just like the others, where a uniformed police officer stood on guard. The car
stopped and the two men alighted.
Then, standing on the
pavement, Maigret paused for a moment, abruptly, for no apparent reason, the way people
with heart disease sometimes stop in the street.
âDo you want to go in?â
He nodded. The curious onlookers stood aside
to let them through. Mansuy tapped discreetly on the door ⦠It was the man who
opened it. His eyes werenât red, but he looked dazed and he walked mechanically.
He glanced at Mansuy, whom he recognized, and took no further notice of them.
That day, the house seemed no longer to
belong to him. A bedroom door was open and a shape lay on the bed letting out a regular,
animal moan. It was Madame Duffieux. A local doctor sat at her bedside, while an old
woman with a paunch, a neighbour perhaps, was bustling around the oven.
The floral bowls were still
â¦â
Mansuy told Maigret the story, his elbows on
the desk, his chin resting on his fists.
âHe left work at six
in the morning, as soon as the first crew arrived. Everything was as usual that morning,
absolutely everything. Heâs a calm, meticulous man. The housewives who rise early
can set their watches by the time he walks past. He goes quietly home, at around six
twenty. He told me all this in detail, sounding like a sleepwalker. The front door opens
directly into the kitchen. Thereâs a chair to the left, a straw-bottomed chair,
youâll see it. His slippers are waiting by the chair.
âHe takes off his shoes, so as not to
wake anyone. He puts a match in the stove, where the fire has been laid, with a sheet of
newspaper and kindling â¦
âThe ground coffee is in the filter of
the cafetière and, as soon as the water in the kettle boils, he pours it over. All
he needs to do is put two lumps of sugar in the floral bowl.
âYouâll see ⦠By the
fireside is a clock with a brass pendulum â¦
âIt is six thirty on the clock when, a
bowl in his hand, he creeps silently into his wifeâs bedroom.
âFor years, each morning, itâs
been the same routine â¦â
Maigret opened the window, even though the
morning air was cool.
âGo on â¦â
âMadame Duffieux is a pale, sickly
woman. She never recovered from the birth of her last child, which doesnât stop
her from trotting around from dawn till dusk ⦠Sheâs a tall and anxious
woman, always tense, always agitated, one of those women who spend their lives expecting
disaster to strike â¦
âShe got dressed while her husband
took off his heavynight clothes. She commented: âItâs
raining ⦠It rained earlier â¦ââ
It was only then that Maigret looked at the
sky, which was still grey.
âThe two of them sat together for half
an hour. Itâs pretty much their only moment of intimacy.
âThen, on the dot of seven, Duffieux
opened a door to go and wake up his daughter.
âThose little houses donât have
shutters. The window at the back overlooking the garden was wide open, as always at this
time of year.
âLucile was dead in her bed, her face
a bluish colour, with big black bruises on her neck â¦
âShall we go over there?â
But he didnât get up yet. He was
waiting. He was still waiting. He couldnât believe that Maigret had nothing to
tell him.
âLetâs go,â was all
Maigret said, with a sigh.
And the street of the outlying district was
exactly as he had imagined it from Mansuyâs description. It was indeed the sort of
street that girls like Lucile come from, with a corner shop that sells vegetables,
groceries, kerosene and sweets, and where the women are on their doorsteps and children
play on the pavements.
There were huddles in the doorways. Women
still in their nightdresses had simply slipped a coat around their shoulders.
Fifty or so people clustered around a little
house just like the others, where a uniformed police officer stood on guard. The car
stopped and the two men alighted.
Then, standing on the
pavement, Maigret paused for a moment, abruptly, for no apparent reason, the way people
with heart disease sometimes stop in the street.
âDo you want to go in?â
He nodded. The curious onlookers stood aside
to let them through. Mansuy tapped discreetly on the door ⦠It was the man who
opened it. His eyes werenât red, but he looked dazed and he walked mechanically.
He glanced at Mansuy, whom he recognized, and took no further notice of them.
That day, the house seemed no longer to
belong to him. A bedroom door was open and a shape lay on the bed letting out a regular,
animal moan. It was Madame Duffieux. A local doctor sat at her bedside, while an old
woman with a paunch, a neighbour perhaps, was bustling around the oven.
The floral bowls were still
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