The Shadow Puppet Read Free Page B

been
     committed between eight and nine p.m.’
    Monsieur de Saint-Marc sighed, smoothed
     his silver hair, nodded to Maigret and headed for the staircase leading up to his
     apartment.
    The concierge had kept her distance.
     Then she went over to someone who was pacing back and forth under the archway, bent
     forward. When she came back to Maigret, he asked her, ‘Who is that?’
    â€˜Monsieur Martin. He’s
     looking for a glove he dropped.
He never
     goes out without his gloves, even to go and buy cigarettes fifty metres from
     here.’
    Now searching around the dustbins,
     Monsieur Martin lit a few matches but eventually gave up and resigned himself to
     going back up to his apartment.
    People were shaking hands in the
     courtyard. The public prosecutor left. The examining magistrate spoke briefly with
     Maigret.
    â€˜I’ll leave you to get on
     with your job. Naturally you’ll keep me posted.’
    Monsieur Philippe, still looking as
     though he’d stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, bowed to the
     detective chief inspector.
    â€˜You no longer need me?’
    â€˜I’ll see you tomorrow.
     You’ll be at your office, I suppose?’
    â€˜At nine on the dot, as
     usual.’
    Suddenly there was a moving scene, even
     though nothing particular happened. The courtyard was still plunged in shadow. A
     single lamp. And then the archway with its dusty light bulb.
    Outside, cars revved up and glided over
     the asphalt, briefly picking out the trees of the Place des Vosges with their
     headlamps.
    The body was no longer there. The office
     looked as if it had been ransacked. Nobody had thought to switch off the lights, and
     the laboratory was lit up as if in anticipation of a hard night’s work.
    And now there were three of them left in
     the middle of the courtyard, three very different people who an hour
earlier had not known each other and who now seemed to be
     drawn to each other by an inexplicable kinship.
    Or rather, they were like the family
     members who remain behind after a funeral when the rest of the guests have left.
    At least this was Maigret’s
     fleeting impression as he looked from Nine’s exhausted face to the
     concierge’s drawn features.
    â€˜Have you put your children to
     bed?’
    â€˜Yes, but they’re not
     asleep. They’re anxious, it’s as if they can sense what’s going
     on.’
    Madame Bourcier had a question she
     wanted to ask, a question she was almost ashamed of, but which, for her, was
     capital.
    â€˜Do you think …’
    Her gaze swept the courtyard and seemed
     to pause at each of the dark windows.
    â€˜â€¦Â that … it’s one of the residents?’
    And now she was staring at the entrance,
     at the vast archway with its door constantly open, except after eleven p.m., which
     led from the courtyard to the street and gave the entire unknown world outside
     access to the building.
    Nine meanwhile was looking
     uncomfortable, shooting the inspector covert glances.
    â€˜The investigation will doubtless
     answer your question, Madame Bourcier. For the time being, one thing seems certain,
     and that is that the person who stole the 360,000 francs is not the murderer. At
     least that is probable, since Monsieur Couchet’s body was blocking the safe.
     By the way, were the lights on in the laboratory this evening?’
    â€˜Wait! Yes,
     I think so. But it wasn’t as brightly lit as now. Monsieur Couchet must have
     switched on a light or two on his way to the toilet, which is right at the back of
     the building.’
    Maigret went back to Couchet’s
     office and switched off all the lights, while the concierge remained in the doorway,
     even though the body was no longer there. In the courtyard, the inspector found Nine
     waiting for him. He heard a noise somewhere above his head, the sound of an object
     swishing against a window pane.
    But all the