The House of Anxiety
by Georges Sim
Part One
7
SCRATCHES
 The silence lasted more than five
minutes. Évariste Gastambide crossed the living room, then the
dining room, casting sly looks at Maigret and Hélène.
The girl continued to set the table, in a
clumsy, disorganized way. The first words were pronounced by the
father, who suddenly walked over to the table, seized a fork placed next
to a plate, and threw it on the floor, roaring, "This is not mine!"
The gesture was brutal. Immediately
afterwards, the man went to his room where he shut himself in. A tear had
finally rolled down Hélène's cheek, but she turned her
head. She continued bustling, not knowing anymore what she was doing,
taking out a plate, putting it back in the buffet, waiting outside the kitchen
door for water to begin to boil, retracing her steps, listening in
the direction of her father's room.
Standing in a corner, Maigret didn't
move. He waited. He felt that some truth was hidden in these
contradictory attitudes, but was incapable of looking for it in any
methodical way.
"Is he often like that?" he wondered in a
half-whisper.
She didn't answer. A sob filled her
throat, causing her to choke. The door of the apartment opened. The girl
stopped, as if she expected a new danger. But, when she recognized
Christian, she hurried towards him.
She probably wanted to throw herself
into his arms, but something prevented her. Maigret, who couldn't see the
young man in full light, didn't understand immediately.
She mumbled, "What happened,
Christian...?"
"Nothing... Hush!"
He saw the commissioner, made a slight
movement of retreat, and then uttered with forced laughter, "Ah! You're
here again, are you! Didn't I arrange that well?"
*
* *
His face was now illuminated. There
were three large scratches, one of which was fairly deep, on the right side
of his nose. He must have had to stem the blood all the way home, as he
still had a handkerchief rolled in a ball in his hand. Some new red drops
formed.
"Pleasures of a car! Where's my father?"
Hélène indicated the
bedroom.
"Fine! Well done, old man!" It was to
himself, or rather to his image reflected in a mirror, that he addressed this
remark. He had the air of a man who'd been in a fight.
"A collision?" quizzed Maigret, looking
him in the eye.
"As you say. Nothing serious,
fortunately. Well! Shall we eat!" he cried, to put end to the conversation.
"The uncooked soup?"
The commissioner's situation was
delicate. He didn't have anything more to do there. And yet he really
would have given a lot to remain, to be present at the domestic evening in
that incredible household.
"I'll leave now..." he said, while going to
get his hat in the living room. "Excuse me for having disturbed you."
"Not at all! On the contrary!" exclaimed
Gastambide, in such a way that there was no possibility of knowing
whether he was perfectly serious or laughing at him.
Maigret headed toward the foyer.
Christian hurried to show him out.
While passing before the door of the
kitchen, the commissioner didn't hesitate to commit an impropriety. The
door was half-open. But he could only see the gas burner. He poked his
head in, and saw Hélène, her two elbows on the table,
sobbing silently. She must have sensed his presence, for she turned, held
herself upright.
"Don't pay any attention..." said
Christian in a low voice, once they were on the landing. I warned you that
they were both batty."
"Do you often meet your sister at the
Cyrano?"
"Me? Never!" He answered very
quickly.
"But she told me that this afternoon..."
"Oh, yes, this afternoon... But that was
just a coincidence, you see? She had shopping to do in the city. And, as I
had the car, I proposed..." The explanation threatened to be long.
"Good evening!" cut in Maigret, heading
for the staircase.
As he crossed the passageway, the door
of the loge opened up. "M. Commissioner..." called Mme
Foucrier. "Won't you come in for a moment?"
He accepted the invitation. She was
dining, tête-à-tête with her husband, who
had a compress around his forehead.
"Is it indiscreet to ask if you've found
anything? Please don't be angry with me... But the Captain was, for us,
like family..."
"The investigation has only begun..."
"It's incomprehensible, isn't it?"
"Is there a wall at the back of the court?"
"It's too high to climb without a ladder.
And there is no ladder in the house. And so when there's a repair to be
made, a bell to arrange, or a lamp to change, I have to go next door to the
painter..."
"One more thing... Does M. Christian
spend all his nights here?"
"Not always... But he's at that age, isn't
he?"
"Last Saturday?"
"Of that I'm sure. He was here... At half-
past nine he went down to get some cigarettes. He stopped in here a
moment..."
"And did you see him going up again?"
"As I see you... I set the timer."
"Has no one come since Sunday?"
"What do you mean?"
"Has no one asked you about the crime?
Did no one try to enter the apartment on the third floor?"
She blushed, seemed to make up her
mind. "Well, actually, yes. M. Henry..."
"Wait! Wait!"
"It's better to tell the truth, isn't it?
Especially as he was straightforward with me... He said that since the
killer hadn't been found, he would himself be likely to fall under
suspicion. So, he'd decided to investigate on his own."
"Did he go up?"
"No! He wouldn't have been able to get
in, since you have the only two keys. But he asked me a number of
questions..."
"About?"
She blushed once more, but this time she
was content to answer, "About all the tenants..."
"Not about someone in particular? For
example, Mlle Hélène?"
"No..." she said, diverting her head.
"Nor about M. Christian?"
"No more than the others."
An idea came him. "It was M. Henry
who thought about the garage wall, wasn't it? And he tried to climb it?"
"Yes! This morning, quite early. But he
couldn't do it, although he's something of a sportsman."
"Did he leave for Nice?"
"I don't think so..."
"Did he ask you to not to speak of his
visit?"
"Yes and no. He didn't specifically ask
me not to tell you. But he told me that he preferred that no one knew that
he was working on it..."
"In sum, he didn't go up... He wasn't
even on the staircase?"
"No."
"Thank you, Madame Foucrier."
"You don't suspect him anymore, do
you? Yesterday, I started to feel that..."
"No, please don't worry about him. Good
night. And better health!"
He left, raising the collar of his overcoat.
Stopping for an instant on the sidewalk, he saw the dark shape of a long
car parked about fifty meters away. On the other sidewalk, a man was
standing in the shadow, the red glow of his cigarette visible.
Maigret was about to cross the street to
accost him, as he was sure it was Demassis, but he changed his mind,
contenting himself with passing in front of the car, noting its make and
plate number.
A quarter of an hour later, from a small
café in the Porte de Montreuil, he called the garage where
Christian Gastambide worked.
"Police! Some information, please. Did
you have an accident this afternoon? A broken windshield on a car driven
by one of your employees?"
"No accident."
"And all your cars returned?"
"All. Intact! You can come round to
verify it yourself..."
This time, Maigret allowed himself to go
home by taxi.
TOP
—
Part I.
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
—
Part II.
1
2
3
4
5
—
Part III.
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
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