‘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 policeman, 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?’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘A fish? Something like a sea horse?’
‘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 establ
ished, 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.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN CLASSICS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in French as Maigret et les Vieillards by Presses de le Cité 1960
This translation first published 2018
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1960
Translation copyright © Shaun Whiteside, 2018
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert / Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-241-30390-0
Maigret and the Old People Page 14