Maigret and the Lazy Burglar

by Georges Simenon

  ‘He’ll send me to search Mademoiselle Schneider’s apartment.’

  ‘Where, I hope, you won’t find anything, just clothes in a suitcase.’

  In spite of his admiration for Maigret, Fumel was uncomfortable. He puffed nervously at his cigarette.

  ‘I understood what you were telling her.’

  ‘Honoré’s mother told me: “I’m sure my son won’t leave me without anything.” ’

  ‘She told me the same thing.’

  ‘You’ll see, Cajou won’t want this case to go any further. As soon as he hears about the Wiltons …’

  Maigret sipped at his toddy, paid the bill and decided to take a taxi back to Quai des Orfèvres.

  ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

  ‘No. I have a bus that goes directly.’

  Was Fumel, fearing perhaps that Evelyne hadn’t quite understood, planning to go back and see her?

  ‘By the way, I’m still bothered by that rug business. Keep trying to find out about that.’

  And with his hands in his pockets, Maigret headed for the taxi rank on Place Constantin-Pecqueur, from where he could see the windows of Inspector Lognon’s apartment.

  8.

  At Quai des Orfèvres, everyone was exhausted, both the inspectors and the men arrested during the night. The witnesses had been fetched from their homes, and they were everywhere, some barely awake and irritable, pestering Joseph:

  ‘When will they get round to questioning us?’

  What could the old clerk reply? He knew no more than they did.

  The waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine brought yet another tray of rolls and coffee.

  Maigret’s first concern, in sitting down in his office, was to call Moers, who was no less busy upstairs in Criminal Records.

  They had given the four men’s hands the paraffin test. If any one of them had fired a weapon of any kind during the three or four previous days, even if he had taken the precaution of wearing gloves, they would find powder encrusted in the skin.

  ‘Do you have the results?’

  ‘The lab has just brought them.’

  ‘Which of the four?’

  ‘Number three.’

  Maigret consulted the list that carried a number against each name. Number three was Roger Stieb, a Czech refugee, who had worked for a time in the same factory on Quai de Javel as Joseph Raison.

  ‘Is the technician categorical?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Nothing on the other three?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Stieb was a tall, fair-haired young man who, during the night, had been the most docile of them all and who even now, facing a grilling from Torrence, was looking at the inspector phlegmatically as if he didn’t understand a word of French.

  Nevertheless, he was the killer of the gang, responsible for covering the assailants’ escape.

  The other man, Loubières, a thickset, muscular, hirsute fellow, originally from Fécamp, ran a garage in Puteaux. He was married with two children, and a whole team of specialists was now busy searching his establishment.

  A search of René Lussac’s apartment had yielded nothing, no more than had a search of the lovely Rosalie’s villa.

  Of all of them, Rosalie was the most argumentative, and Maigret could hear her yelling, even though she was two offices further along the corridor, all alone with Lucas.

  They had begun the face-to-face identifications. The two waiters were too overawed to be certain, but thought they recognized Fernand as the customer who had been in the brasserie when the hold-up took place.

  ‘Are you sure you have the whole gang?’ they had asked before the identification.

  They had been told yes, even though it wasn’t true. One accomplice was missing, the one who had driven the car, as to whom they hadn’t a single clue.

  As was always the case, he would have had to be an exceptional driver, but was probably not a permanent member of the gang.

  ‘Hello? … Yes, sir, we’re making progress … We know who fired the gun: the man named Stieb … Yes, of course he denies it. He’ll keep denying it. They all will.’

  Except for poor Madame Lussac, who was at home looking after her baby with the social worker and who was still in a terrible state.

  Maigret was finding it hard to keep his eyes open, and the toddy at the Régence hadn’t helped. From time to time he got out the bottle of liqueur brandy he kept in his cupboard for special occasions and took a swig of it, although not without an initial hesitation.

  ‘Hello? … Not yet, judge.’

  He was being called on two phones simultaneously. It was not until 10.20 that he finally received the call he had been waiting for. It came from Puteaux.

  ‘We found it, chief.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Not a single note missing.’

  They had put in the newspapers an announcement that the bank knew the serial numbers of the stolen banknotes. It wasn’t true, but the lie had stopped the gang from putting the money into circulation. They had been waiting for the opportunity to offload the notes in the provinces or abroad; Fernand was clever enough to bide his time and stop his men from leaving town while the investigation was at its height.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the padding of an old car. Old Mother Loubières, who’s quite a strong woman, wouldn’t leave us alone.’

  ‘Do you think she’s in the know?’

  ‘Yes, I do. We searched every one of the cars. We even had to dismantle them a bit. But we finally hit the jackpot!’

  ‘Don’t forget to get a statement from Madame Loubières.’

  ‘I tried, but she refused.’

  ‘Then find witnesses.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve done.’

  As far as Maigret was concerned, that was the end of it, or almost. They didn’t need him to question the witnesses or proceed with the identifications. That would take hours yet.

  After which, each of the inspectors would write his report. And he personally would have a general report to draw up.

  ‘Could you put me through to Prosecutor Dupont d’Hastier?’

  And, a moment later:

  ‘They’ve found the banknotes.’

  ‘The case, too?’

  He was asking too much. Why not clear fingerprints as well?

  ‘The case is floating somewhere in the Seine, or was burned in a furnace.’

  ‘Where was the money found?’

  ‘Loubières’ garage.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Nothing yet. He hasn’t been told.’

  ‘Make sure his lawyer is present. I don’t want any objections, or any incidents in court later.’

  Once the corridors were finally empty, the four men would be taken to the part of the building where the cells were, as would Rosalie – although not to the same room – and there, stark naked, they would be measured and photographed. For at least two of them, it wasn’t a new experience.

  They would probably spend the night in the cells on the ground floor, because the examining magistrate would want to see them the following morning before locking them up in the Santé.

  The case would not go to court for several months, and, in the meantime, other gangs would have time to form, in the same way, for reasons that didn’t concern Maigret.

  He opened a door, then a second one, and found Lucas sitting at a typewriter, tapping away with two fingers, while Rosalie paced up and down, her fists on her hips.

  ‘So there you are! Are you happy now? You couldn’t sleep knowing that Fernand was free, so you found a way to get your hands on him. You’re not even ashamed to harass a woman, forgetting that you used to have a drink in my bar and didn’t mind me giving you the odd tip-off.’

  She was the only one who wasn’t sleepy and still had all her energy intact.

  ‘And now you’re deliberately humiliating me, putting me in the hands of your smallest inspector. I could eat a man like him for breakfast.’

  He
didn’t reply, but winked at Lucas.

  ‘I’m going to have an hour or two’s nap. The money’s been found.’

  ‘What?’ she screamed.

  ‘Don’t leave her alone. Get someone else to keep her company, a big man if she really wants one, and then use my office.’

  ‘All right, chief.’

  He had himself driven home in a police car: the courtyard was full of them, given that since the previous night they had been in a state of general mobilization.

  ‘I hope you’re going to sleep?’ his wife said, making the bed ready. ‘What time shall I wake you?’

  ‘Twelve thirty.’

  ‘So early?’

  He couldn’t face having a bath immediately. He would do it after his sleep. He was just starting to doze off, feeling pleasantly warm, when the phone rang.

  He reached out his arm and grunted:

  ‘Yes, this is Maigret.’

  ‘Fumel here, detective chief inspector.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just falling asleep. Where are you?’

  ‘Rue Marbeuf.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have news. About the rug.’

  ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘No. I doubt it’ll ever be found. But it did exist. The petrol pump attendant in Rue Marbeuf is categorical. He last saw it about a week ago.’

  ‘Why did he notice it?’

  ‘Because it’s rare to see a rug in a sports car, especially one made of fur.’

  ‘When exactly did he see it last?’

  ‘He can’t be sure, but he says it wasn’t a long time ago. Then about two or three days ago, when young Wilton came and filled up with petrol, it wasn’t there any more.’

  ‘Put that in your report.’

  ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

  Maigret, who was in a hurry to finish, merely said:

  ‘Nothing!’

  He hung up. He needed sleep. In any case, he was sure he had been right.

  Nothing would happen!

  He could imagine the starchy look on Judge Cajou’s face if he went and told him:

  ‘At about one o’clock on the night of Friday to Saturday, Honoré Cuendet broke into the mansion of Florence Wilton, née Lenoir, in Rue Neuve-Saint-Pierre.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because he’d been keeping an eye on the house for five weeks from a room in the Hôtel Lambert.’

  ‘So, just because a man takes a room in a seedy hotel, you conclude—’

  ‘This isn’t just any man we’re talking about, this is Honoré Cuendet, who for nearly thirty years …’

  He would describe Cuendet’s method.

  ‘Did you catch him in the act?’

  Maigret would be obliged to admit he hadn’t.

  ‘Did he have keys to the mansion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any accomplices on the inside?’

  ‘It’s very unlikely.’

  ‘And Madame Wilton was at home, along with her servants?’

  ‘Cuendet never broke into empty houses.’

  ‘And you claim that this woman—’

  ‘Not her. Her lover.’

  ‘How do you know she has a lover?’

  ‘Through a prostitute named Olga, who also lives opposite.’

  ‘Did she see them in bed together?’

  ‘She saw his car.’

  ‘And who is this lover?’

  ‘Young Wilton.’

  The images in his mind were becoming a little incoherent by this point: Maigret imagined Cajou laughing, which wasn’t really in his character.

  ‘You’re implying that this woman and her son-in-law …’

  ‘We know the father and daughter-in-law did the same thing.’

  ‘What?’

  He would tell him the story of Lida, who had been the father’s mistress after marrying the son.

  Come now! Were such things possible? Could a serious-minded magistrate, belonging to the most respectable classes in Paris, admit for a single moment that …

  ‘I hope you have more evidence than that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He had to be asleep and dreaming, because he now saw himself taking a little package from his pocket and opening it to reveal two barely visible threads.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Hairs, judge.’

  Another indication that it was a dream, could only be a dream: Judge Cajou saying:

  ‘Whose hairs?’

  ‘A wildcat’s.’

  ‘Why wild?’

  ‘Because the rug in the car was made of wildcat fur. For once in his long career, Cuendet must have made a noise, knocked something over that raised the alarm, and he was set upon and knocked out. The lovers couldn’t call the police without …’

  Without what? His ideas were no longer very clear. Without Stuart Wilton discovering what was going on, obviously. And Stuart Wilton was providing the money …

  Neither Florence nor her lover knew this stranger who had burst into their room. Wasn’t it a sensible precaution to disfigure him?

  He had lost a lot of blood, forcing the couple to clean everything …

  Then the car …

  There, too, he had soiled the rug …

  ‘You understand, judge …’

  He would stand there with a sheepish look on his face, holding those two hairs.

  ‘First of all, how do you know they’re wildcat hairs?’

  ‘An expert told me.’

  ‘And another expert will come and tear his testimony to pieces in the witness box by stating that they’re hairs from some other animal.’

  The judge was right. That was how it would happen. There would be laughter in court.

  And the lawyer would flick his sleeves back and say:

  ‘Come now, gentlemen, let’s be serious. Is this what their charges are based on? Two hairs?’

  Of course, it might happen differently. Maigret could pay Florence Wilton a visit, ask her questions, rummage about the house, interview the servants.

  Or, in the silence of his office, he could have a long conversation with young Wilton.

  Only, none of that was according to regulations.

  ‘That’s enough, Maigret. Forget these fantasies and take those hairs away.’

  To be honest, he didn’t really care. Hadn’t he winked at Fumel earlier?

  Would the inspector, with all his unhappy love affairs, have better luck with Evelyne than with the other women?

  In any case, the old woman in Rue Mouffetard hadn’t been mistaken.

  ‘I know my son. I’m sure he won’t leave me without anything.’

  How much money was there in the …?

  Maigret was fast asleep.

  They would never know.

  1.

  Instead of groaning and fumbling for the telephone in the dark as he usually did when it rang in the middle of the night, Maigret gave a sigh of relief.

  Already he could only vaguely recall the dream from which he’d been so rudely awakened, but he knew it had been unpleasant: he’d been trying to explain to someone important, whose face he couldn’t see and who was extremely displeased with him, that it wasn’t his fault, that he needed to be shown patience, just a few days’ patience, because he was out of practice and he felt listless, ill at ease with himself. He needed to be trusted and it wouldn’t be long. Most of all, he needed not to be looked at in a disapproving or mocking way …

  ‘Hello …’

  As he pressed the receiver to his ear, Madame Maigret raised herself up on her elbow and switched on the bedside light.

  ‘Maigret?’ inquired a voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  He didn’t recognize the caller, even though it sounded familiar.

  ‘Saint-Hubert here …’

  A detective inspector of around his age, whom he’d known since his early days. They addressed one another by their surnames and remained quite formal. Saint-Hubert was tall and thin, auburn-haired and a littl
e slow and solemn, keen to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

  ‘Have I woken you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My apologies. In any case, I think that Quai des Orfèvres will be in touch any minute to fill you in because I’ve alerted the public prosecutor’s office and the Police Judiciaire.’

  Sitting up now, Maigret reached for a pipe that he’d left on the bedside table to burn itself out when he’d gone to bed. He looked around for matches. Madame Maigret rose and went to fetch some from the mantelpiece. The air blowing in through the open window was still balmy; the city was studded with lights and the rumble of distant taxis could be heard.

  They had come home from their holiday five days earlier and this was the first time they’d been woken up so abruptly. For Maigret, it was a sort of coming back down to earth, a return to routine.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he muttered, drawing on his pipe while his wife held the lit match over the bowl.

  ‘I’m phoning from the apartment of Monsieur René Josselin, 37a, Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, next door to the convent of the Little Sisters of the Poor … A body has just been discovered. I don’t know much about it because I only got here twenty minutes ago … Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes …’

  Madame Maigret went into the kitchen to make coffee and Maigret gave her a knowing wink.

  ‘The case looks disturbing; it is probably sensitive … That’s why I took the liberty of calling you … I was afraid they’d simply send one of the duty inspectors …’

  He chose his words carefully and Maigret guessed that he wasn’t alone in the room.

  ‘I knew you were on holiday recently.’

  ‘I returned last week.’

  It was Wednesday. Or rather Thursday, because the alarm clock on Madame Maigret’s bedside table showed ten past two. They had gone to the cinema, not so much to see the film, which was mediocre, but to get back into the habit of going out.

  ‘Do you intend to come?’

  ‘As soon as I’m dressed.’

  ‘I will be most grateful to you. I know the Josselins slightly. They’re not the sort of people one expects to be involved in a tragedy like this …’

  Even the smell of the tobacco had a professional quality to it: that of a pipe put out the previous evening and re-lit in the middle of the night when a man is woken up by an emergency. The aroma of coffee too was different from that of the morning coffee. And the smell of petrol, wafting in through the open window …