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who’s been waiting for an hour? In mourning? It’s not
     Madame Couchet? What? Madame Martin? I’m on my way.’
    Madame Martin
in mourning
! And
     she’d been waiting for him at police headquarters for an hour!
    All Maigret had seen of her so far was a
     shadow puppet, the comical, gesticulating shadow on the second-floor curtain the
     previous evening, whose mouth opened and shut, emitting a furious invective.
    It happens all the time!
the
     concierge had told him.
    And the poor civil servant, who’d
     forgotten his glove and gone for a solitary walk along the dark banks of the
     Seine.
    And when Maigret had left the courtyard,
     at one a.m., he’d heard a noise at a window.
    He slowly climbed the dusty stairs,
     shook hands with a few colleagues in passing and put his head around the half-open
     door of the waiting room.
    Ten green velvet armchairs. A table like
     a billiards table. On the wall, the roll of honour: 200 portraits of inspectors
     killed in the line of duty.
    In the centre chair a lady in black sat
     very stiffly, one hand clutching her handbag with its silver clasp, the other
     resting on the handle of an umbrella.
    Thin lips. A
     steady gaze staring straight ahead.
    She did not move a muscle on sensing
     that she was being watched.
    She sat and waited with a set
     expression.

4. The Second-Floor
     Window
    She walked ahead of Maigret with that
     aggressive dignity of those for whom mockery is the worst calamity.
    â€˜Please sit down,
     madame!’
    It was a clumsy, friendly Maigret, with
     a slightly vague look in his eyes who showed her into his office, indicating a chair
     bathed in light streaming in through the pale oblong window. She sat down, adopting
     exactly the same pose as in the waiting room.
    A dignified pose, naturally! A fighting
     posture too. Her shoulders did not touch the back of the chair. And her black-gloved
     hand was poised to gesticulate without letting go of the handbag, which would swing
     through the air.
    He, on the other hand, sat in an
     armchair. It was tilted back, and he sprawled in a rather crude position, puffing
     avidly on his pipe.
    â€˜I imagine, Detective Chief
     Inspector, that you are wondering why I—’
    â€˜No!’
    It wasn’t malice that made Maigret
     throw her off balance like that the minute they met. It wasn’t a coincidence
     either. He knew it was necessary.
    Madame Martin jumped, or rather her
     chest stiffened.
    â€˜What do you mean? I don’t
     imagine you were expecting—’
    â€˜Oh yes, I was!’
    And he smiled at
     her good-naturedly. Suddenly, her fingers were ill at ease in her black woollen
     gloves. Her sharp gaze swept the room and then something occurred to Madame
     Martin.
    â€˜Have you received an anonymous
     letter?’
    It was a statement as much as a
     question, with a false air of certainty, which made the inspector smile all the
     more, because this again was a characteristic trait that fitted in with everything
     he already knew about the woman sitting in his office.
    â€˜I’ve not received any
     anonymous letter.’
    She shook her head dubiously.
    â€˜You won’t have me
     believe—’
    She was straight out of a family photo
     album. Physically, she was a perfect match for the Registry Office official she had
     married.
    It was easy to imagine them strolling up
     the Champs-Élysées on Sunday afternoons: Madame Martin’s black, twitchy back,
     her hat always skew-whiff because of her bun, walking with the hurried pace of an
     active woman and that jerk of her chin to underline her emphatic words; Monsieur
     Martin’s putty-coloured overcoat, his leather gloves and walking stick, and
     his peaceful, assured gait, his attempts at a leisurely promenade, stopping to gaze
     at the window displays.
    â€˜Did you have mourning clothes at
     home?’ murmured Maigret snidely, exhaling a big cloud of smoke.
    â€˜My sister died three