Maigret and the Killer

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Besides, his parents …’

  ‘How long had you known him?’

  ‘Since I’ve been working at the café. That’s four months. It was in the winter, I remember. It snowed the first day I saw him. He was buying a pack of Gitanes. He came in to get a pack every day.’

  ‘How long was it before he waited for you when you were leaving work?’

  ‘Over a month.’

  ‘Did you become his girlfriend?’

  ‘Just a week ago today.’

  ‘Do you have a brother?’

  ‘I’ve got two. One in the army, in Germany, the other works in Lyon.’

  ‘Are you from Lyon?’

  ‘My father was from Lyon. Now that he’s dead, the family has dispersed, and I’m alone in Paris with my mother. We live on Rue Saint-Paul. I worked in a big store, but I couldn’t cope. It was too tiring for me. When I found out that they were looking for a waitress in Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile …’

  ‘Did Antoine have any enemies?’

  ‘Why would he have had enemies?’

  ‘Because he liked taking his tape recorder round some very seedy places.’

  ‘Nobody paid him any attention. He sat in a corner or leaned on the bar. He took me with him twice.’

  ‘Did you meet up every evening?’

  ‘He came to get me from the bar and brought me home. Once or twice a week we went to the cinema.’

  ‘Can you tell me what your name is?’

  ‘Mauricette.’

  ‘Mauricette what?’

  ‘Mauricette Gallois.’

  They had slowly turned back, crossed Pont Marie and were now in Rue Saint-Paul.

  ‘This is my place. Is there anything more you want to ask me?’

  ‘Not for now. Thank you, Mauricette. Good luck.’

  Maigret sighed and, by Saint-Paul Métro station, he took a taxi that brought him home in a few minutes. He tried not to think about his investigation and, after turning on the television out of habit, he turned it off again for fear that it might be talking about Rue Popincourt and the art thieves again.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘That we could go to the cinema and that it’s almost mild this evening. We’ll be able to walk all the way to the Grands Boulevards.’

  It was one of his favourite pastimes. After a few steps, Madame Maigret took his arm, and they walked along slowly, stopping from time to time to look at a window display. They talked about nothing in particular, a passing face, a dress, the last letter from his sister-in-law.

  That evening, Maigret fancied a western, and they had to go all the way to Porte Saint-Denis to find one. In the interval he had a glass of calvados, and his wife settled for a verbena tea.

  At midnight, the lights went out in their apartment. It hadn’t occurred to Maigret that the previous day had been the first day of spring. It had turned up right on time. He saw again the light on Quai d’Anjou in the morning, outside the dead boy’s house.

  At nine o’clock he had a phone call from Poiret, the examining magistrate.

  ‘Any news, Maigret?’

  ‘Nothing so far. At any rate, nothing precise.’

  ‘You don’t think that sailor … What’s his name again? … Yvon Demarle …’

  ‘I’m convinced that while he’s up to his neck in the art theft case, he has nothing to do with the murder in Rue Popincourt.’

  ‘Do you have an idea?’

  ‘It may be taking shape. It’s still too vague to talk about, but I expect certain developments quite soon.’

  ‘A crime of passion?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Financially motivated?’

  He hated these classifications.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. The phone rang half an hour later. It was the desk editor at one of the evening papers.

  ‘Inspector Maigret? … This is Jean Rolland … I’m not disturbing you? … Don’t worry. I’m not calling you for information, although if you have any it would always be welcome …’

  Maigret was rather chilly with the editor of that newspaper, precisely because he complained about not always being told important news items before anybody else.

  ‘We print as much as three other newspapers … It would be natural …’

  It wasn’t war between them, more a sort of sulk. That was probably why the desk editor called him rather than his boss.

  ‘Did you read our articles yesterday?’

  ‘I’ve skimmed them.’

  ‘We’ve tried to analyse the possibility of a close relationship between the two cases. In the end, we’ve found as many clues for as against.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And yet this article brought us a letter which we found in the morning mail, that I’m going to read to you.’

  ‘Just one moment. Is the address written in block letters?’

  ‘Yes. The letter, too.’

  ‘I imagine it’s on ordinary paper of the kind that they sell in packs of six in tobacconists’ and grocers’.’

  ‘Right again. Have you had another letter?’

  ‘No. Go on.’

  ‘I’ll read it:

  Dear sir,

  I have read with care the articles published over the last few days in your estimable newspaper about what is called the Rue Popincourt affair and the affair of the paintings. Your editor is attempting, unsuccessfully, to establish a connection between the two affairs.

  I find it naive on the part of the press to imagine that young Batille was attacked on Rue Popincourt because of a tape. And in any case, did the murderer take his tape recorder away?

  As to the sailor Demarle, he has never killed anyone with his Swedish knife.

  Those knives are sold in every good ironmongery, and I have one myself.

  Except that mine really did kill Antoine Batille. I’m not boasting, believe me. I’m not proud of it. On the contrary. But I’m weary of all this fuss. And most importantly I don’t want an innocent man like Demarle to pay in my place.

  You may publish this letter if you see fit. I guarantee that it is only the truth.

  Thank you.

  Yours faithfully.

  Of course, there was no signature.

  ‘Do you think it’s a joke, inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Obviously I could be wrong, but there is a strong likelihood that this letter was written by the murderer. Look at the envelope and tell me where it was posted.’

  ‘Boulevard Saint-Michel.’

  ‘You can take a photograph of it if you plan to publish a facsimile, but I’d like it to pass through as few hands as possible.’

  ‘Do you hope to find prints?’

  ‘I’m nearly certain that we’ll find them.’

  ‘Were there any on the newspaper cutting on which someone wrote the word “No!” in green ink?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I read your appeal. Do you hope that the murderer will call you?’

  ‘If he’s the kind of man I think he is, he will.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no point in asking you what kind of man he is.’

  ‘For now, in fact, I’m obliged to keep quiet. I’ll send you someone to pick up that letter and I’ll give it back to you once the case is over.’

  ‘Fine. Good luck.’

  He turned back towards the door in surprise. Joseph, the old clerk, was standing in the doorway and, behind him, there was a man in a beige uniform with big brown stripes on his trousers. His cap was beige too, and had a badge with a gold crown.

  ‘This gentleman is insisting on giving you a small package in person, and I haven’t been able to get rid of him.’

  ‘What is it?’ Maigret asked the intruder.

  ‘It’s a message from Monsieur Lherbier.’

  ‘The leather merchant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you exp
ecting a reply?’

  ‘I wasn’t told, but I was asked to hand this package to you in person. It was Monsieur Lherbier himself who gave me the task yesterday evening.’

  Maigret had unwrapped a beige cardboard box, marked with the inevitable crown, and in the box he found a black crocodile-skin wallet, the four corners reinforced with gold. Here again the crown was in gold.

  A visiting card read only:

  A token of my gratitude.

  Maigret put the wallet back in the box.

  ‘Just one moment,’ he said to the messenger. ‘You’ll probably be better than me at rewrapping this package.’

  The man looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘Tell your boss that I’m not in the habit of receiving gifts. Add if you wish that I am still touched by his gesture.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to write to him?’

  ‘No.’

  The telephone rang insistently.

  ‘Right! Carry on rewrapping your package in the waiting room. I’m very busy.’

  And once he was on his own again, he picked up the phone.

  6.

  ‘It’s someone who doesn’t want to give his name, inspector. Shall I put him through anyway? He claims you know who he is.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  He heard the click and said in a voice that wasn’t entirely his usual one:

  ‘Hello.’

  Maigret and his interlocutor were equally impressed, and the inspector was careful to avoid anything that might startle the person on the other end.

  ‘Do you know who’s speaking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know my name?’

  ‘Your name isn’t important.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to try and find out where I’m calling from?’

  The voice was hesitant. The man lacked confidence and was trying to embolden himself.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not interested.’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you believe that I’m the man from Rue Popincourt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This time there was quite a long silence, then the voice asked shyly, anxiously:

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m listening.’

  ‘Have you already been given the letter that I sent to the newspaper?’

  ‘No, it was read out to me on the phone.’

  ‘Did you receive the cutting with the photograph?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you believe me? You don’t think I’m a lunatic?’

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘What do you think of me?’

  ‘First of all, I know that you have no criminal record.’

  ‘Because of my prints?’

  ‘Exactly. You’re used to leading a modest and regular life.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  Maigret fell silent, and the other man began to panic again.

  ‘Don’t hang up.’

  ‘Do you have lots of things to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know … Perhaps … I have no one to talk to …’

  ‘You aren’t married, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You live alone. Today you’ve taken the day off, perhaps calling your office to tell them you were ill.’

  ‘You’re trying to make me say things that will help you identify me. Are you sure that your technicians aren’t trying to trace my call?’

  ‘I give you my word.’

  ‘So you’re not in a hurry to arrest me?’

  ‘I’m like you. I’m glad it’s over.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You wrote to the papers.’

  ‘I don’t want them to go after an innocent man.’

  ‘That’s not the real reason.’

  ‘Do you think I want to be caught?’

  ‘Unconsciously, yes.’

  ‘What else do you think about me?’

  ‘You feel lost.’

  ‘The truth is that I’m afraid.’

  ‘Afraid of what? Of being arrested?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t matter. I’ve already said too much. I wanted to talk to you, to hear your voice. Do you despise me?’

  ‘I don’t despise anybody.’

  ‘Not even a criminal?’

  ‘Not even a criminal!’

  ‘You know you’ll catch me sooner or later, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have clues?’

  Maigret nearly admitted to him, to get it over with, that he already had a photograph of him, first at Quai d’Anjou, then outside the church, and finally at Montparnasse Cemetery.

  He would only have to publish these photographs in the papers for a number of people to give him the identity of Batille’s murderer.

  If he didn’t, it was because he had a hunch that in that case the man wouldn’t wait to be arrested, and that they would probably find a corpse at his home.

  He had to come forward of his own accord, slowly.

  ‘There are still clues, but it’s hard to assess their value.’

  ‘I’m about to hang up.’

  ‘What are you going to do today?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. Are you going to spend Sunday in the country?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Have you got a car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You work in an office, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s true. There are tens of thousands of offices in Paris, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Do you have friends?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A girlfriend?’

  ‘No. When I have to, I take what I can get … You know what I mean?’

  ‘I’m sure that tomorrow you’ll take advantage of the fact that it’s Sunday to write a long letter to the papers.’

  ‘How come you guess everything?’

  ‘Because you aren’t the first person this has happened to.’

  ‘And how did it work out for the others?’

  ‘There were different endings.’

  ‘Did some of them kill themselves?’

  He didn’t reply, and there was silence at the end of the line again.

  ‘I don’t have a gun and I know that these days it’s almost impossible to get hold of one without a special permit.’

  ‘You’re not going to commit suicide.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have called me.’

  Maigret wiped his forehead. This conversation seemed almost banal. Yet these trivial exchanges were still allowing him to get the man’s character in focus.

  ‘I’m going to hang up,’ said the voice at the end of the line.

  ‘You can call me again on Monday.’

  ‘Not tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow, and I won’t be in the office.’

  ‘Won’t you be at home?’

  ‘I’m planning to go to the country with my wife.’

  Each phrase was deliberate.

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a happy man?’

  ‘Relatively, like most men.’

  ‘I’ve never been happy.’

  He hung up abruptly. Either someone had tried to get into the booth, impatient at seeing him talking for such a long time, or the conversation had left his nerves raw.

  He wasn’t a drinker. Perhaps, to give himself courage, he would make an exception? He had called from a café or a bar. People were rubbing shoulders with him, looking at him without suspecting that he was a killer.

  Maigret called his wife.

  ‘What would you say to spending the weekend in Meung-sur-Loire?’

  She was so startled that she said nothing for a moment.

  ‘But … you … What about your investigation?’


  ‘It needs to stew.’

  ‘When would we leave?’

  ‘After lunch.’

  ‘By car?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Even though she had been driving for a year, she still wasn’t confident, and she always took the wheel with uncontrollable apprehension.

  ‘Buy something for dinner this evening, because the shops may be closed by the time we get there. And something to make a large breakfast with tomorrow morning. We’ll have lunch at the inn.’

  Among his closest colleagues the only one available was good old Janvier, and he invited him to go for a drink.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘You know, chief, Sunday is the day for my mother-in-law, the children’s uncles and aunts.’

  ‘We’re going to Meung.’

  He and his wife had lunch quickly at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. Then, after doing the washing up, Madame Maigret went and changed.

  ‘Is it cold?’

  ‘Chilly.’

  ‘Can I wear my floral dress?’

  ‘Why not? You’re taking a coat, aren’t you?’

  An hour later, they entered the flow of tens of thousands of Parisians heading for a patch of green.

  They found the house as clean and tidy as if they had left it the previous day, because a local woman came in twice a week to air it, dust it and clean the parquet floor. There was no point talking to her about new cleaning products. Everything was waxed, even the furniture, and there was a strong smell of polish.

  Her husband looked after the garden, and Maigret found crocuses in the lawn and, at the foot of the back wall, in the most sheltered spot, daffodils and tulips.

  His first concern was to go to the first floor to put on an old pair of trousers and a flannel shirt. He always felt that the house, with its exposed beams and dark corners, and the peace that reigned there, was like a priest’s house. He wasn’t unhappy with this, quite the contrary.

  Madame Maigret busied herself in the kitchen.

  ‘Are you very hungry?’

  ‘Normally hungry.’

  They didn’t have a television down here. After dinner, when the weather was a little warmer, they sat in the garden and watched twilight fall and darken the landscape.

  That evening they went for a gentle walk, going down to the Loire, which, after the rains earlier that week, rolled with muddy water and swept tree branches along.

  ‘Are you worried?’

  He had been silent for a long time.

  ‘Not exactly. Antoine Batille’s killer called me this morning.’