The Shadow Puppet Read Free

silhouette. She was small and thin, like the concierge. You
     couldn’t hear her voice, but even so, you could tell she was angry. Sometimes
     she would remain stock still, staring at an unseen person, then abruptly she would
     start speaking, gesticulating, taking a few steps forward.
    â€˜Who is that?’
    â€˜Madame Martin. You saw her
     husband return earlier, you know, the man who picked up his rubbish bin, the
     Registry Office official.’
    â€˜Are they in the habit of
     arguing?’
    â€˜They don’t argue.
     She’s the one who shouts. He doesn’t dare open his mouth.’
    From time to time, Maigret took a look
     inside the office where ten or so people were busy at work. Standing in the doorway,
     the prosecutor called the concierge.
    â€˜Who is Monsieur Couchet’s
     second-in-command?’
    â€˜The manager, Monsieur Philippe.
     He doesn’t live far away, he’s on the Ile Saint-Louis.’
    â€˜Does he
     have a telephone?’
    â€˜He’s bound to.’
    There was a sound of voices speaking on
     the phone. Upstairs, Madame Martin’s silhouette could no longer be seen
     against the curtain. However, a nondescript individual came down the stairs,
     furtively crossed the courtyard and went out into the street. Maigret recognized
     Monsieur Martin’s bowler hat and putty-coloured overcoat.
    It was midnight. The girls playing the
     gramophone switched off their lights. Apart from the office, the only light left on
     was on the first floor, in the Saint-Marcs’ sitting room, where the former
     ambassador and the midwife were conversing in low voices, a faint odour of
     disinfectant in the air.
    Despite the late hour, when Monsieur
     Philippe arrived, he was impeccably turned out, his dark, well-kempt beard, his
     hands gloved in grey suede. He was in his forties, the epitome of the
     serious-minded, well-brought-up intellectual.
    He was certainly astonished, devastated
     even, by the news. But he seemed somehow to be holding back in his reaction.
    â€˜With the life he led,’ he
     sighed.
    â€˜What life?’
    â€˜I refuse to speak ill of Monsieur
     Couchet. Besides, there’s no ill to speak of. He was master of his own
     time—’
    â€˜Just a minute! Did Monsieur
     Couchet manage his company himself?’
    â€˜Neither hands-on nor hands-off.
     It was he who started
it up. But once it
     was up and running, he left me to handle everything. To the extent that sometimes I
     didn’t see him for a fortnight. Take today, I waited for him till five
     o’clock. It’s payday tomorrow. Monsieur Couchet was supposed to bring me
     the money to pay the staff’s wages. Around 300,000 francs. At five
     o’clock, I had to go and I left a report for him on the desk.’
    The typed report was still there,
     beneath the dead man’s hand. A mundane report: a suggested rise for one worker
     and the sacking of one of the delivery men; a draft advert for the Latin American
     companies and so on.
    â€˜So the 300,000 francs should be
     here?’ inquired Maigret.
    â€˜In the safe. The fact that
     Monsieur Couchet opened it proves it. He and I are the only two people who have the
     key and the code.’
    But to open the safe, the body had to be
     moved, which could not be done until the photographers had finished their job. The
     pathologist was making his verbal report. Couchet had been hit by a bullet in the
     chest, which had severed the aorta, and death had been instantaneous. The distance
     between the killer and his victim was estimated at three metres. And lastly, the
     bullet was of the most common calibre: 6.35mm.
    Monsieur Philippe explained some things
     to the examining magistrate.
    â€˜Here in Place des Vosges, we only
     have our laboratory, which is behind this office.’
    He opened a door. They glimpsed a vast
     room with a glazed roof where thousands of test tubes stood in rows. Behind another