The Shadow Puppet by Georges Simenon; Translated by Ros Schwartz

Right-hand door. Jojo! Leave your sister alone!’
    Maigret started walking up the stairs,
     Madame Martin’s umbrella under his arm. The building had been renovated up to
     the first floor, the walls repainted and the stairs varnished.
    From the second floor, it was a
     different world – grubby walls and a rough floor. The apartment doors were painted
an ugly brown and had either name
     cards tacked on to them or little spun aluminium plates.
    A calling card at three francs a
     hundred:
Monsieur and Madame Edgar Martin
. To the right, a three-colour
     braided bell-pull with a silk tassel. When Maigret yanked it, a reedy bell rang in
     the hollowness of the apartment. Then there were rapid footsteps. A voice asked,
     ‘Who is it?’
    â€˜I’ve brought back your
     umbrella.’
    The door opened. The entrance hall was
     reduced to one square metre with a coat stand from which the putty-coloured overcoat
     hung. Directly opposite, the open door of a room, part living room, part dining
     room, with a wireless set on a sideboard.
    â€˜Forgive me for the intrusion.
     This morning you left this umbrella in my office.’
    â€˜There you go! And I was convinced
     I’d left it on the bus. I was saying to Martin—’
    Maigret did not smile. He was used to
     women who were in the habit of calling their husbands by their surnames.
    Martin was there, in his striped
     trousers over which he’d slipped a chocolate-coloured, coarse-cloth smoking
     jacket.
    â€˜Do come in.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t want to disturb
     you.’
    â€˜You never disturb people who have
     nothing to hide!’
    The primordial characteristic of a home
     is probably its smell. Here, the smell was indistinct, a blend of caustic soda,
     cooking and musty old clothes.
    A canary was
     hopping about in a cage, occasionally spraying a drop of water.
    â€˜Offer the detective chief
     inspector the armchair.’
    The
armchair! There was only
     one, a high-backed Voltaire leather armchair so dark that it looked black.
    And Madame Martin, very different from
     how she had been that morning, simpered, ‘You’ll have a drink,
     won’t you … Oh you must! Martin! Pour an aperitif.’
    Martin was flustered. Perhaps there was
     nothing to drink? Perhaps they were nearly out?
    â€˜No thank you, madame. I never
     drink on an empty stomach.’
    â€˜But you have the time—’
    It was sad. So sad that it almost made
     you want to give up on being a man, on living on this earth, even though the sun
     shines over it for several hours a day and there are real birds flying freely!
    These people didn’t seem very fond
     of light, for the three electric bulbs were carefully shrouded in heavy, coloured
     shades that let only the tiniest amount of light through.
    â€˜Caustic soda mainly,’
     thought Maigret.
    That was the dominant
smell
!
     What’s more, the surface of the solid oak table was polished as smooth as an
     ice rink.
    Monsieur Martin wore the smile of a man
     entertaining.
    â€˜You must have a marvellous view
     over the Place des Vosges, which is the only square of its kind in Paris,’
     said Maigret, who was perfectly aware that the windows overlooked the courtyard.
    â€˜No! The
     apartments at the front, on the second floor, have very low ceilings, because of the
     architectural style … All the buildings around the square are classed as
     historical monuments, you know. We can’t change anything, which is a great
     shame! We’ve been wanting to put in a bathroom for years and—’
    Maigret had walked over to the window.
     He casually tweaked the shadow-puppet blind. And stood stock still, so stunned that
     he forgot to make polite conversation.
    Facing him were the Couchet firm’s
     offices and laboratory.
    From downstairs he had noticed that
     there were frosted-glass windows, but from up here, he saw that only the lower panes
     were