Maigret's Patience

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I remembered one thing after you left. There was a rumour going round a while back that Palmari owned a hotel on Rue de l’Étoile. It was a sleazy joint, Hôtel Bussière or Bessière.’

  Maigret paid without seeming to attach much importance to this information.

  ‘I’m going to check it out, Lapointe,’ he murmured a while later. ‘I don’t expect I’ll be there long. Good luck.’

  Monsieur Louis watched him walk to the door. A taxi was passing. Ten minutes later, Maigret got out of the car opposite the Hôtel Bussière, situated less than 100 metres from the police station, which didn’t stop two or three girls lingering there with obvious intent.

  ‘You coming?’

  He shook his head and found a night clerk behind the counter that separated the corridor from a small room in which could be seen a roll-top desk, a key rack and a camp bed.

  ‘Is it for one night? Are you alone? Do you have any bags? In that case I have to ask you to pay in advance. Thirty francs, plus twenty per cent service charge.’

  He pushed a register under Maigret’s nose.

  ‘Name, address, passport or identity card number.’

  If Maigret had had a girl with him he would have bypassed these formalities.

  After the trap that had been laid for him two weeks earlier and had almost forced him into retirement, he preferred not to compromise himself.

  He wrote down his name, his address and card number, omitting his profession. He was given a key, and the ill-shaven clerk pushed an electric button which rang on the floor above.

  It wasn’t a chambermaid but a man in shirt-sleeves and a white apron who met him on the first floor and took his key, looking at the number on it with a surly expression.

  ‘Forty-two? Follow me.’

  The hotel didn’t have a lift, which explained the porter’s bad mood. The night staff at these second- or third-rate hotels is often made up of the dregs of humanity, and there are enough of them to fill an entire slum.

  This particular porter had a limp, a crooked nose and a yellow pallor that suggested his liver was shot.

  ‘Stairs and more stairs!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Bloody hell.’

  On the fourth floor he led the way down a narrow corridor and stopped outside number 42.

  ‘Here you are. I’ll bring you some towels.’

  Because there were no towels in the rooms: a classic trick to get a tip on top of the twenty per cent service charge.

  The porter then made a show of checking that nothing was missing, and then his eye was caught by the fifty-franc note that Maigret was ostentatiously holding between two fingers.

  ‘Is that for me?’

  He grew suspicious but couldn’t prevent his eyes lighting up.

  ‘Looking for a pretty girl? Didn’t find what you are after downstairs?’

  ‘Close the door for a moment.’

  ‘Hey, you don’t have anything in mind, do you? It’s funny, I feel like I know your face.’

  ‘Maybe I remind you of someone. Do you always work at night?’

  ‘Not me. I do the night shift every other week when I have to go into hospital for treatment.’

  ‘So you sometimes work in the daytime and know some of the regular customers?’

  ‘I know some of them. Others are just passing through.’

  His red-rimmed eyes drifted from the banknote to the inspector’s face, and his forehead creased, displaying a painful attempt to think.

  ‘Can you tell me if you know this woman?’

  Maigret pulled from his pocket a picture of Aline Bauche he had taken without her knowledge several months earlier.

  ‘I’d like to know if she ever comes here accompanied by a man.’

  The porter merely glanced at the photo, and his brow darkened even more.

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this is a picture of the owner. At least, as far as I know.’

  ‘Do you see her often?’

  ‘Not at night, at any rate. I sometimes see her when I’m on days.’

  ‘Does she have a room at the hotel?’

  ‘A suite, on the first floor.’

  ‘But she isn’t there regularly?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know. Sometimes we see her, sometimes we don’t. It isn’t any of our business and we’re not paid to stick our noses in.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘How would I?’

  ‘Or her name?’

  ‘I’ve heard the manageress call her Madame Bauche.’

  ‘When she comes to the hotel, does she stay long?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say, because there’s a spiral staircase that links the manageress’s office on the ground floor with the apartment on the first.’

  ‘Can you also get to the apartment using the main stairs?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Take this money. It’s yours.’

  ‘Are you from the police?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Hold on, you aren’t Inspector Maigret by any chance, are you? I thought your face was familiar. I hope you aren’t going to cause the owner any trouble, because then I’ll be in it too.’

  ‘I promise to keep you out of it.’

  A second banknote appeared as if by magic in Maigret’s hand.

  ‘In return for an honest answer to a simple question.’

  ‘Let’s hear the question first.’

  ‘When she comes to the hotel, does Madame Bauche, as you call her, meet anyone other than the manageress?’

  ‘She doesn’t deal with the staff, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. She might receive visitors from outside, who might not use the spiral staircase but will come up the main stairs …’

  The second banknote was as enticing as the first. Maigret cut through the man’s hesitation with a direct question:

  ‘What is he like?’

  ‘I’ve only seen him a couple of times, almost always in the afternoon. He’s younger, slimmer than you.’

  ‘Dark hair? Thin dark moustache? Handsome?’

  The porter nodded.

  ‘Was he carrying a case?’

  ‘Mostly, yes. He rents a room on the first floor, always the same one, number seven, the one nearest the apartment, and he never spends the night there.’

  The banknote changed hands, and the porter slipped it quickly into his pocket, but he didn’t leave straight away, just in case there was a third question that might earn him another fifty francs.

  ‘Thank you. I promise you won’t be involved. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.’

  When the bell went again, the porter dashed out of the room, calling out:

  ‘I’m coming!’

  ‘You didn’t get too hot, did you?’ Madame Maigret asked worriedly. ‘I hope you took enough time to have lunch and dinner and didn’t just make do with sandwiches.’

  ‘I had an excellent paella at the Clou Doré. And for lunch, I can’t remember. Oh yes, I ate with a funny little examining magistrate in an Auvergnat bistro.’

  He had trouble getting to sleep, because all the people he had encountered that day came back to haunt him, one after the other, primarily the strangely twisted, almost grotesque form of Palmari lying in front of his wheelchair.

  For Ancelin, he was simply a victim in a case that would occupy his attention only for a few weeks. Maigret, however, had known Manuel at different stages of his career; even though they were on different sides of the fence, the two men had forged subtle, almost indefinable bonds between them.

  Could it be said that the inspector respected the former owner of the Clou Doré? That would be overstating it. Leaving aside all preconceptions, the senior policeman could not help holding the man in some esteem.

  In the same way, he had from the start been curious about Aline, who exerted a certain fascination on him. He tried hard to understand her and sometimes thought he had, onl
y then to call his judgement into question.

  Finally, he slipped into the floating zone between waking and sleep, and the figures started to blur, and his thoughts became hazy and vague.

  Fundamentally, there is fear. He had often talked about this when he was awake, with Doctor Pardon, who, like him, had a lot of experience of people and had come to very similar conclusions.

  Everyone is afraid. We help young children overcome their fears with fairy tales, and then as soon as they get to school they are scared of showing their parents a school report with bad marks in it.

  Fear of water. Fear of fire. Fear of animals, fear of the dark. Fear, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, of making wrong choices and ruining your life.

  In a state of semi-consciousness, all these fears became like the notes of a muted, tragic symphony: the hidden fears we drag behind us right through to the end, the acute fears that make us scream, the fears we make light of after the event, the fear of an accident, of illness, of the policeman, the fear of other people, of what they might say or think, of the way they look at you as they walk past.

  Earlier, when he had stared at the banknote between Maigret’s fingers, the sickly porter at the Hôtel Bussière was torn between the fear of losing his job and temptation. Then, with every banknote dangled before him, the same mechanism was at work. Was he afraid, even now, that Maigret might talk, that he had got himself mixed up in some serious business which would create all sorts of complications for him?

  It was out of fear too that Pernelle, the recent new owner of the Clou Doré, had come to whisper in his ear the Rue de l’Étoile address. Fear of being harassed by the police in the future, fear of having his establishment closed down because of a breach of some obscure regulation.

  Wasn’t Monsieur Louis afraid too? Up until now he had remained in the shadows, with nothing explicitly linking him to Manuel and Aline. But now he too had the police snapping at his heels, and you don’t live in Montmartre as long as he had without knowing what that means.

  Who at this precise moment was most afraid, Aline or Fernand Barillard?

  Only that morning, no one had any idea that there was a link between the two apartments on the fourth floor. Madame Barillard simply enjoyed her life without asking herself any questions, carrying out her housewifely duties to the best of her ability. Had Aline resigned herself to go to bed? Lucas remained stuck there like a limpet, calm and determined. Nothing would dislodge him. She couldn’t go out and she couldn’t make a telephone call. She suddenly found herself in her own company, cut off from the rest of the world. Wouldn’t she rather have been taken to Quai des Orfèvres, where she could have protested and demanded a lawyer of her choice be present?

  Officially, the police were only at her home for her protection.

  Two doors and a landing separated her from the man she had received several times in her secret apartment at the Hôtel Bussière.

  Was Palmari in the know? He too had lived for months with the police camped outside his home and his telephone tapped, and on top of all that, he was an invalid.

  Yet he had continued to run his operation, directing his men via Aline as his go-between.

  That was Maigret’s last thought before he finally succumbed to sleep: Aline … Manuel … Aline called him Daddy … Snide and aggressive towards everyone else, she had a soft spot for the old gang leader and defended him like a tigress … Aline … Manuel …

  Aline … Fernand …

  There was someone missing. Maigret was no longer lucid enough to recall who was absent from the roll call. One of the cogs. He had spoken about him to someone, maybe the magistrate? An important cog, because of the diamonds.

  Aline … Manuel … Fernand … leave out Manuel, since he was dead … Aline … Fernand. Each of them in a cage, walking in circles, waiting for Maigret’s next move.

  When he woke up, Madame Maigret opened the window wide, then offered him a cup of coffee.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I don’t know. I had lots of dreams, but I can’t remember what they were about.’

  The same sun as the day before, the same feeling of joy in the air, in the sky, in the chirruping of the birds, in the sounds and smells of the street.

  It was Maigret who was different, who wasn’t part of this happy chorus of the new day.

  ‘You seem tired.’

  ‘I have a big day ahead of me, some important decisions to make.’

  She had guessed that the previous evening when he had come home, but she was careful not to ask any questions.

  ‘Wear your grey pinstripe suit. It’s lighter than the other one.’

  Did he hear? He ate his breakfast mechanically and drank two cups of coffee without even tasting them. He didn’t hum in the shower and got dressed with his mind elsewhere. He forgot to ask what was for lunch. His only question was:

  ‘By the way, how was the lobster yesterday?’

  ‘There’s enough left to make a salad.’

  ‘Call me a taxi, would you?’

  No bus this morning, not even one with a platform. No passing scene, no coloured images to glide sensuously over his retina.

  ‘Quai des Orfèvres!’

  First, his office.

  ‘Get me Fernand Barillard … Étoile 42.38 … Hello! Madame Barillard? … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret here … Could you put your husband on the line, please? … Yes, I can wait …’

  He vaguely flicked through the pile of reports on his desk.

  ‘Hello! … Barillard? … It’s me again … I forgot yesterday to ask you to stay at home this morning and probably the rest of the day … I know! … I know! … You have clients expecting you, I’m sorry about that! … No, I have no idea what time I will be coming to see you …’

  Lucas’ report was simply a personal note for Maigret; he would write up his official report later.

  Nothing important to report. She walked around the apartment until two o’clock in the morning, and more than once I wondered whether she was going to slap my face as she went past me. In the end she shut herself in her room, and after about half an hour it all went quiet in there. At eight o’clock, when Jarvis relieved me, she seemed to be sleeping. I’ll ring into the office around eleven to see if you need me for anything.

  Lapointe’s report was not much more interesting. He had phoned in at three o’clock in the morning.

  For the attention of Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.

  Monsieur Louis and his companion stayed until eleven thirty at the Clou Doré. The girl is called Louise Pégasse, also known as Lulu the Torpedo, her stage name at the Boule Verte, a strip club on Rue Pigalle, where she tops the bill.

  Monsieur Louis accompanied her there. I followed him and sat at a table near his. Lulu went in through the stage door and later reappeared to do her act, after which she installed herself at the bar, where, along with her colleagues, she has to encourage customers to buy drinks.

  Monsieur Louis didn’t move, didn’t make a phone call. At no point did he leave the room. Just before three o’clock, Lulu walked over and whispered something in his ear. He went to collect his hat, and we waited out on the street, one behind the other. Lulu came out shortly afterwards. The pair of them then went on foot to a furnished hotel on Place Saint-Georges, the Hôtel du Square.

  I questioned the night porter. Louise Pégasse has been living at the hotel for months. She often comes back with a man, rarely the same one. This was the second or third time Monsieur Louis had gone up to her room. I’m ringing from a bistro that’s about to shut. I’ll carry on with the stake-out.

  ‘Janvier! Where’s Janvier? Has he come in yet?’

  ‘He’s gone to the toilet, sir.’

  ‘Send a man to relieve Lapointe outside the Hôtel du Square in Place Saint-Georges. He must be exhausted. If he has nothing new to report, tell him to go home and get some sleep and then ring in later this afternoon. It’s possible I might need him again.’

  He just had enough
time to rush to the daily briefing, where he was the last to arrive, by some considerable margin. There were some knowing looks sent in his direction, for he had that expression on his face he wore on big days, grim, determined, pipe at an angle and clenched hard between his teeth: sometimes he had been known to bite it so hard he had snapped the ebonite stem.

  ‘Apologies, commissioner.’

  He didn’t hear anything that the others said. When it came to his turn, he simply muttered:

  ‘I am continuing my investigation into the death of Manuel Palmari. If all goes well, I hope to crack the jewel theft gang at the same time.’

  ‘You’re still pursuing that theory! How many years have you had Palmari under suspicion now?’

  ‘Several years, I admit.’

  There were some other reports awaiting his attention, the ones from Gastinne-Renette and the pathologist in particular. The three bullets that had hit Manuel, one of which had ended up lodged in the back of the wheelchair, had indeed been fired from Palmari’s Smith & Wesson.

  ‘Janvier! Can you come in here a moment?’

  He gave him some instructions for organizing the guard duty at Rue des Acacias. A little later, he went to the Palais de Justice through the glass door that separates it from the Police Judiciaire. He had to go up two flights of stairs to get to the office of Examining Magistrate Ancelin, which was almost up in the rafters.

  It was one of the unmodernized parts of the building which were allocated to new arrivals, and the magistrate had ended up having to pile his papers on the floor and keep his lamps on all day.

  When he saw Maigret, the chubby magistrate rubbed his hands together.

  ‘You can take a break,’ he told his clerk. ‘Sit down, my dear inspector. I’m keen to hear where things are at.’

  Maigret gave him a summary of what he had been doing the previous day and of the reports he had received in the morning.

  ‘Are you confident that all these disparate elements will add up to a coherent whole?’

  ‘Each individual involved in this case is afraid. Each one of them is, right now, kept isolated from the others, with no means of communication …’