Cécile is Dead by Georges Simenon

ladies who
     confided in him. Monsieur Dandurand had then climbed another rung on the ladder and got
     to know the owners. He must have lost no time in meeting them at the bars in Montmartre
     where they gathered in the evening to play cards.
    And so Monsieur Charles Dandurand, the
     Fontenay lawyer, had become Monsieur Charles, the adviser and colleague of certain
     gentlemen who had the utmost confidence in him, because his knowledge of the criminal
     code was extremely useful to them.
    â€˜The advantage was hers,
     inspector.’
    His long, pale hands, their backs covered
     with hairs, were fiddling with the pipes on his table. Tufts of grey hair also grew in
     his nostrils.
    â€˜Haven’t you ever heard of old
     Juliette?’ he asked. ‘Of course, you’re solely concerned with the work
     of the homicide squad. But your colleague Cassieux … well, it began with that
     establishment in Rue d’Antin when it came up for sale. I mentioned it to Madame
     Boynet – I always called her Juliette; we used to play together as children. Juliette
     bought it. A year later I acquired the Paradise in Béziers for her, one of the best
     houses in France.’
    â€˜Did she know what sort of investments
     you were making for her?’
    â€˜Listen to me, inspector, I’ve
     known misers in my time – a provincial lawyer finds that all kinds of people cross his
path – but their avarice was nothing by
     comparison to Juliette’s. She had a positively mystical love of money. Just ask
     the underworld bosses. They’ll confirm that Juliette was the sleeping partner in
     the ownership of a great many houses. Would you like to know the figures?’
    He got up and went over to a safe fixed to
     the wall, took out of it a notebook of dubious appearance and moistened his unattractive
     fingers to help him turn the pages better.
    â€˜Last year I gave Juliette the sum of
     five hundred and ninety thousand francs in banknotes. A profit of five hundred and
     ninety thousand francs …’
    â€˜And she kept all that cash in her
     apartment?’
    â€˜I have every reason to think so,
     since she never went out any more and she wouldn’t have handed such sums over to
     her niece. Oh, I can guess what you’re thinking, I know that my situation appears
     in a bad light, but I assure you that you’re wrong, inspector. I have never
     cheated anyone out of so much as a centime. Ask the gentlemen I meet in the course of
     this business; they’re not the kind to put up with any irregularity. Everyone will
     tell you that Monsieur Charles behaves perfectly correctly. Tobacco?’
    Maigret pushed away the tobacco pouch
     offered to him and took his own out of his pocket.
    â€˜No, thank you.’
    â€˜Just as you like. I’m putting
     you in the picture – coming clean, as our underworld friends might say.’
    For a man who had spent half his life in the
     prim and proper society of Fontenay, he had an odd smile on his face when he spoke of
     the underworld.
    â€˜Juliette had
     her obsessions, as I was saying. The idea that the nature of her investments might be
     discovered some day … and remember that she never saw anyone and no one was bothered
     about her … but all the same, she took ridiculous, positively touching precautions.
     During the six months and more since she last left her apartment, I had to go and see
     her at home. How do you think I had to act on those days?’
    Footsteps on the stairs. The Siveschis, on
     their way home, could be heard talking vociferously in Hungarian, and as they reached
     the floor above their conversation turned to argument.
    â€˜Every morning the tenants’
     newspapers are left at the lodge downstairs. The concierge sorts them into the proper
     pigeon-holes along with the post. When I collected my paper, I had to trace a cross in
     pencil on Juliette’s, and then poor Cécile, who knew nothing