The Home Nurse ‘He had heart disease. He knew it.’ Nine sipped her ruby-coloured aperitif. ‘That’s why he took things easy. He said he’d worked enough, that it was time for him to enjoy life.’ ‘Did he sometimes talk about death?’ ‘Often! But not … not that kind of death! He was thinking of his heart disease.’ They were in one of those little bars where all the customers are regulars. The owner watched Maigret covertly as if he were a bourgeois meeting his mistress. At the counter, the men were talking about the afternoon’s racing. ‘Was he sad?’ ‘It’s hard to explain! Because he wasn’t like other men. For example, when we were at the theatre, or somewhere else, he’d be enjoying himself. Then, for no reason, he’d say with a deep laugh, “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it, Ninette!”’ ‘Did he take care of his son?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did he talk about him?’ ‘Almost never! Only when he came to scrounge.’ ‘And what did he say?’ ‘He’d sigh, “What a stupid idiot!”’ Maigret had already intuited that, for one reason or another, Couchet had little affection for his son.
