Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon

judge. No one had touched the body as yet. The doctor had not arrived. But she had obviously been dead for a long time.
    The cover of the mattress on which she lay had a long slit in it, and some of the stuffing had been pulled out.
    There were bottles in this room, too, and scraps of food; and, right in the middle of the floor, a chamber-pot with urine in it.
    “Did she live by herself?” asked Maigret turning to the concierge.
    The woman nodded, with pursed lips.
    “Did she have many visitors?”
    “If she had, she’d probably have kept the place a bit cleaner, wouldn’t she?” retorted the woman—adding, as though she felt the need to defend herself:
    “I’ve not set foot in here for at least three years, until today.”
    “Wouldn’t she let you in?”
    “I didn’t want to come in.”
    “Had she no servant or charwoman?”
    “Nobody. Only a woman friend, as crazy as herself, who used to look in now and then.”
    “Do you know her?”
    “Not by name, but I see her sometimes in the streets round here. She’s not quite so far gone yet. That’s to say she wasn’t when I last saw her, which was some little time ago.”
    “Did you know your tenant was a drug addict?”
    “I knew she was half crazy.”
    “Were you concierge here when she took the flat?”
    “I’d have taken care she didn’t. It’s only three years since we came to the house, my husband and I, and she’s been here for at least eight. I’ve done my best to get rid of her.”
    “Is she really a Countess?”
    “So it seems. At any rate she was married to a Count; but before that she can’t have been any great shakes.”
    “Was she well off?”
    “I suppose so, for it wasn’t starvation she died of.”
    “You didn’t see anyone going up to her flat?”
    “When?”
    “Last night or this morning.”
    “No. Her woman friend didn’t come. Neither did the young man.”
    “What young man?”
    “A nice-mannered, sickly-looking boy with long hair, who used to visit her and called her ‘Aunt’.”
    “You don’t know his name?”
    “I never concerned myself with her affairs. The rest of the house is quiet enough. The first floor tenants are nearly always away, and the second floor is a retired General. You see the style of the place. This woman was so filthy that I used to hold my nose as I went past the door.”
    “Did she never have a doctor in?”
    “I should think she did! About twice a week. Whenever she was really drunk, on wine or whatever it was, she’d imagine she was dying and ring up her doctor. He knew her, and was never in a hurry to come.”
    “A local man, was he?”
    “Yes—Dr Bloch, who lives three houses farther down the street.”
    “Was it he you rang up when you found the body?”
    “No. That wasn’t my business. I got on to the police at once. First the Inspector came, and then you.”
    “Would you try to get Dr Bloch on the phone, Janvier? Ask him to come along as soon as he can.”
    Janvier began a search for the telephone, which he finally discovered in another, smaller room, where it was on the floor, surrounded by old magazines and tattered books.
    Maigret continued to question the concierge.
    “Is it easy for anyone to get into the house without your seeing them?”
    “Same as in any other house, what?” came the sharp retort. “I do my job as well as any other concierge—better than most and you won’t find a speck of dust on the staircase.”
    “Are those the only stairs?”
    “There’s a service flight, but hardly anybody uses it. And if they do, they still have to come past my door.”
    “Are you there all the time?”
    “Except when I’m out shopping: even a concierge has to eat.”
    “What time do you do your shopping?”
    “About half past eight in the morning, as soon as the postman has been round and I’ve taken up the letters.”
    “Did the Countess get many letters?”
    “Only circulars. From shops that must have seen her name in the directory and got excited