Maigret and the Lazy Burglar

by Georges Simenon

  He turned to Maigret.

  ‘I don’t think, inspector, that this is a case for you. I’m sure you have a number of important investigations in progress. Talking of which, how far have you got with the post office hold-up in the thirteenth?’

  ‘Nowhere yet.’

  ‘What about the previous hold-ups? How many have we had, just in Paris, in the last two weeks?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Which is why I’m quite surprised to find you here dealing with an unimportant case.’

  It wasn’t the first time Maigret had heard this refrain. The gentlemen of the prosecutor’s office were alarmed by the latest crime wave, as they called it, and especially by the spectacular robberies which, as periodically happens, had been on the increase recently.

  That meant that a new gang had recently formed.

  ‘Still no clues?’

  ‘None at all.’

  It wasn’t quite true. Although he had no clues, strictly speaking, he nevertheless had a theory that held up and which the facts seemed to confirm. But that was nobody’s business, especially not that of the prosecutor’s office.

  ‘Listen, Cajou. I want you to deal with this case. If you’ll take my advice, make sure it’s talked about as little as possible. It’s a horrible crime but of no great importance. I mean to say, if these underworld characters start killing each other, it’s better for everyone. Do you understand me?’

  He turned again to Fumel.

  ‘You’re an inspector in the sixteenth, is that right?’

  Fumel nodded.

  ‘How long have you been in the police?’

  ‘Thirty years. Twenty-nine, to be exact.’

  To Maigret:

  ‘Is he well thought of?’

  ‘He knows his job.’

  Kernavel drew the examining magistrate aside and spoke to him in a low voice. When the two men came back, Cajou seemed a little embarrassed.

  ‘Well, detective chief inspector, I thank you for having put yourself out. I’m going to stay in contact with Inspector Fumel here and will give him my instructions. If at any moment I consider that he needs help, I’ll issue a letter of request or summon you to my office. You have an important task that requires your urgent attention, so I won’t keep you any longer.’

  It wasn’t just the cold that was making Maigret pale. He gripped his pipe so hard between his teeth that there was a slight cracking of the vulcanite.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, as if to take his leave.

  ‘Do you have transport?’

  ‘I’ll find a taxi at Porte Dauphine.’

  Kernavel hesitated, almost offered to drive him there, but Maigret was already walking away, with a little wave of the hand to Fumel.

  Half an hour later, he would probably be able to tell them quite a lot about the dead man. But he wasn’t yet sure, which was why he had said nothing.

  From the moment he had bent over the body, he had had the impression that he knew who it was. Even though the face had been reduced to a pulp, he would have sworn he had recognized the man.

  He only needed one little item of evidence, which they would discover when they stripped the body.

  Admittedly, if he was right, they would reach the same conclusion with the fingerprints.

  At the taxi rank, he found the same driver who had brought him.

  ‘Finished already?’

  ‘Take me home, to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’

  ‘Got it. All the same, it was quick work … Who was it?’

  A bar was open on Place de la République, and Maigret almost asked the driver to stop, so that he could have a quick drink. Out of a sense of decency, he didn’t do so.

  Even though his wife had gone back to bed, she heard him climb the stairs and came and opened the door to him. She, too, was surprised.

  ‘So soon?’

  Then, immediately afterwards, in an anxious voice:

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. Those gentlemen don’t need me.’

  He told her as little as he could. It was rare for him to talk about the affairs of Quai des Orfèvres at home.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll make you some breakfast. You should have a quick bath to warm yourself up.’

  He didn’t feel cold any more. His anger had given way to sadness.

  He wasn’t the only one in the Police Judiciaire to feel discouraged. Even the commissioner had spoken twice of handing in his resignation. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to mention it a third time, because they were already talking about replacing him.

  They were reorganizing, as they called it. In the silence of their offices, well-educated, well-brought-up young men from the best families in the country were examining all sides of the matter in a quest for greater efficiency. What emerged from their learned cogitations were hare-brained schemes that found expression every week in new rules.

  First and foremost, the police had to be a tool at the service of the law. A tool. And a tool, of course, has no brain.

  It was the examining magistrate, from his office, and the prosecutor, from his even more prestigious office, who led the investigation and gave the orders.

  That wasn’t all. To carry out these orders, they didn’t want any old-style policemen, those old ‘hobnailed boots’ who, like Aristide Fumel, couldn’t even spell.

  When it was mainly now a matter of paperwork, what were they to do with these people who had learned their trade on the beat, tramping the streets, keeping a watch on department stores and railway stations, knowing every bistro in their neighbourhood, every crook, every whore, capable, on occasion, of discussing their jobs with them in their own language?

  What was required now was diplomas, exams at every stage of their careers. When he had to arrange a stakeout, Maigret could only count on the few veterans in his team.

  They hadn’t got rid of him yet. They were waiting, knowing he was only two years from retirement.

  Nevertheless, they were starting to supervise everything he did.

  It wasn’t quite day. As he had his breakfast, more and more lights came on in the windows of the houses opposite. Because of that telephone call, he was ahead of schedule and feeling a little numb, like when you haven’t slept enough.

  ‘Is Fumel the one who squints?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The one whose wife left him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they ever find her?’

  ‘They say she got married in South America and has a swarm of children.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘What’d be the point?’

  At the office, too, he arrived ahead of time, and, although day had finally broken, he had to light his green-shaded desk lamp.

  ‘Give me the duty office at Rue de la Faisanderie, please.’

  He might be barking up the wrong tree. He didn’t want to become sentimental.

  ‘Hello? Is Inspector Fumel there? … What? He’s writing his report?’

  More paper, more forms, more wasted time.

  ‘Is that you, Fumel?’

  Fumel again spoke in a muffled voice, as if this call had to be kept secret.

  ‘Have Records finished their work?’

  ‘Yes, they left an hour ago.’

  ‘Has the pathologist been on the scene?’

  ‘Yes, the new one.’

  Because there was a new pathologist, too. Old Dr Paul, who had still been carrying out post-mortems at the age of seventy-six, had died and been replaced by a man named Lamalle.

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He agrees with his colleagues. The man wasn’t killed where he was found. He’d lost a lot of blood, there’s no doubt about that. The last blows to the face were struck when the victim was already dead.’

  ‘Was the body stripped?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Did you notice a tattoo on the left arm?’

  ‘Ho
w did you know about that?’

  ‘A fish? Something like a seahorse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they take fingerprints?’

  ‘They’re looking at them right now.’

  ‘Is the body at the Forensic Institute?’

  ‘Yes … You know, I was very upset earlier. I still am. But I didn’t dare …’

  ‘You can already write in your report that, in all probability, the victim is a man named Honoré Cuendet, originally from the Vaud in Switzerland, who once spent five years in the Foreign Legion.’

  ‘The name sounds familiar. Do you know where he lived?’

  ‘No. I know where his mother lives, if she’s still alive. I’d prefer to be the first person to talk to her.’

  ‘They’ll find out.’

  ‘I don’t care. Write down the address, but don’t go there before I tell you. It’s in Rue Mouffetard. I don’t know the number. She’s on a mezzanine above a bakery, close to the corner of Rue Saint-Médard.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Are you staying in the office?’

  ‘It’ll take me another two or three hours to finish this damned report.’

  Maigret had not been mistaken, which gave him a certain satisfaction, as well as a touch of sadness. He left his office, climbed the staircase and walked into the fingerprint department, where men in grey smocks were at work.

  ‘Who’s handling the prints of the dead man from the Bois de Boulogne?’

  ‘Me, sir.’

  ‘Have you identified him?’

  ‘Just this minute.’

  ‘Cuendet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Almost perky now, he walked along other corridors and reached the top floors of the Palais de Justice, where, in Criminal Records, he found his old friend Moers also bent over papers. They had never before accumulated so much paperwork as they had in the past six months. Administrative work had always been important, of course, but Maigret had calculated that, for some time now, it had been taking up about eighty per cent of the time of officers in all departments.

  ‘Did they bring you the clothes?’

  ‘The fellow from the Bois de Boulogne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Moers pointed to two of his colleagues, who were shaking large paper bags in which the dead man’s clothes had been sealed. It was routine, the first of the technical procedures. What they had to do was collect dust of all kinds and then analyse it, which sometimes provided them with valuable clues, about the profession of an unknown person, for example, or the place where he usually lived, sometimes about the place where the crime had really been committed.

  ‘What about the pockets?’

  ‘Nothing. No watch, no wallet, no keys. Not even a handkerchief. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Any marks on the clothes or underwear?’

  ‘They weren’t torn or unstitched. I noted down the name of the tailor. Do you want it?’

  ‘Not now. The man’s been identified.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘An old acquaintance of mine, named Cuendet.’

  ‘A criminal?’

  ‘A quiet man, probably the quietest burglar ever.’

  ‘Do you think an accomplice of his did it?’

  ‘Cuendet never had any accomplices.’

  ‘Why was he killed?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’

  Here, too, they were working by artificial light, as was common in offices in Paris these days. The sky was the colour of steel, and out in the streets the road surface was so black that it seemed to be covered with a layer of ice.

  People were walking quickly, hugging the buildings, little clouds of steam in front of their faces.

  Maigret went back down to the inspectors’ room. Two or three were on the telephone; most, of course, were writing.

  ‘Anything new, Lucas?’

  ‘We’re still looking for Fernand. Someone thinks they saw him in Paris three weeks ago, but they can’t be sure.’

  A familiar name. Ten years earlier, this Fernand, whose exact identity had never been established, had been part of a gang that, over a period of a few months, had committed an impressive number of hold-ups.

  The whole gang had been arrested, and the trial had lasted nearly two years. The leader had died in prison, of tuberculosis. A few other members were still under lock and key, but the time had come when, having had their sentences reduced for some reason, they were being released one after the other.

  Maigret hadn’t mentioned this earlier to Deputy Prosecutor Kernavel, in spite of the man’s panic at the ‘new crime wave’. He had his own ideas on the subject. Certain details of the recent hold-ups had led him to believe that they were the work of old lags who had doubtless formed a new gang.

  They just had to find one of them. And to that end, all the men available had been working patiently for nearly three months.

  Their search had ended by focusing on Fernand. He had been released a year earlier, but there had been no trace of him for the past six months.

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘She still swears she hasn’t seen him again. The neighbours confirm that. Nobody’s seen Fernand in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Carry on, boys. If anyone asks for me … If anyone from the prosecutor’s office asks for me …’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Tell them I’ve gone for a drink. Tell them anything …’

  After all, they couldn’t stop him taking an interest in a man he had known for thirty years, a man who had been almost a friend.

  2.

  He rarely spoke about his job, and even more rarely expressed an opinion about men and their institutions. He distrusted ideas, as they were always too rigid to reflect reality, which, as he knew from experience, was very fluid.

  It was only with his friend Pardon, the doctor from Rue Popincourt, that he sometimes, after dinner, came out with what might, at a pinch, pass for revelations.

  A few weeks earlier, indeed, he had taken the liberty of speaking with a touch of bitterness.

  ‘People imagine, Pardon, that we’re here to track down criminals and obtain their confessions. That’s another of those false ideas of which there are so many in circulation and which we get so used to that nobody dreams of examining them. Actually, our main role is to protect the state, first of all, the government, whatever it is, the institutions, then the currency and public property, then the property of individuals, and finally, right at the end, the lives of individuals …

  ‘Have you ever been curious enough to look through the penal code? You have to get to page 177 before you find anything about crimes against the individual. Maybe one day, when I’m retired, I’ll do a more accurate count, but let’s say that three-quarters of the code, perhaps even as much as four-fifths, are about property, counterfeiting, the forging of public or private documents, the poaching of inheritance, and so on and so forth, in other words, everything to do with money. In fact, Article 274, about begging in a public place, comes before Article 295, about voluntary homicide …’

  And yet they had had a good dinner that night, and had drunk an unforgettable Saint-Émilion.

  ‘In the newspapers, it’s my department, the Crime Squad, as everyone calls it, that gets the most attention, because it’s the most spectacular. In actual fact, we’re less important, in the eyes of the Ministry of the Interior, for example, than Special Branch or the Fraud Squad …

  ‘We’re a bit like criminal lawyers. We’re the public face of things, but it’s the civil lawyers who do the serious work, in the shadows.’

  Would he have spoken this way twenty years earlier? Or even six months earlier, before these transformations that he had been uneasily witnessing?

  He muttered under his breath as, with the collar of his overcoat raised, he crossed Pont Saint-Michel, where the wind was making the pedestrians all bend in the same direction, at the same angle.

 
He often talked to himself like this, with a grouchy look on his face, and one day he had overheard Lucas saying to Janvier when the latter was still quite new on the team:

  ‘Don’t pay any attention. When he’s brooding like that, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in a bad mood.’

  Or, in fact, that he was unhappy. It was just that something was bothering him. Today, it was the way the men from the prosecutor’s office had behaved in the Bois de Boulogne, and the stupid way Honoré Cuendet had met his end: beaten to death, then his face pummelled to a pulp.

  ‘Tell them I’ve gone for a drink.’

  This was the point they had reached. What concerned these highly placed gentlemen was putting an end to the series of hold-ups that were harming the banks and the insurance companies. They were equally bothered by the rise in car thefts.

  What if the people collecting the money were better protected? he had objected. What if one man, or two men, weren’t entrusted with the task of transporting millions on a route that anybody could find out about?

  Too expensive, obviously!

  As for the cars, was it normal to leave an object worth a fortune, sometimes the price of a medium-sized apartment or a house in the suburbs, at the kerb, often with the doors unlocked, sometimes even with the key still in the ignition?

  You might as well leave a diamond necklace or a wallet containing two or three million francs within reach of whoever came along …

  What was the point? It was none of his business. He was only a tool, now more than ever, and it wasn’t up to him to decide these questions.

  All the same, he proceeded to Rue Mouffetard, where, in spite of the cold, he found the usual bustle around the open-air stalls and barrows. Two houses past Rue Saint-Médard, he recognized the narrow bakery with its yellow-painted façade and the low windows of the mezzanine above it.

  The building was old, narrow and high. At the far end of the courtyard, iron could be heard being beaten.

  He walked up the stairs, where there was a rope instead of a banister, knocked at a door and soon heard muffled steps.

  ‘Is that you?’ a voice asked at the same time as the doorknob turned and the door opened.

  The old woman had put on weight, although only from the waist down. Her face was quite thin, her shoulders narrow; her hips, on the other hand, had become enormous, so enormous that she walked with difficulty.