Maigret's Holiday

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Hello … Is that the Tabac des Vosges? Am I speaking to the owner? … Is the customer who just phoned still there? … What was that? … Yes, you go and check … Hello? … Just left? … Did he pay? … Tell me – did another customer come in while he was on the phone? … No? … On the terrace? … Go and look if he’s still there … He left too? … And without waiting for the drink he’d ordered? … Thanks … No … Who am I? … Police … No, nothing for you to worry about …’

  It was at this point that he decided not to go to the Brasserie Dauphine with the commissioner. When he opened the door of the inspectors’ office, he found Janvier, who was back and waiting for him.

  ‘Come into my office. Tell me everything.’

  ‘He’s an oddball, sir. Shortish and nondescript, wore a raincoat, a grey hat and black shoes. He rushed into the Caves du Beaujolais and made straight for the phone booth, telling the man behind the counter to serve him a drink. He said, “Anything’ll do”. Through the window of the booth, the bar owner saw him talking animatedly and waving his arms about. Then, when the other customer walked in, the first one shot out of the booth like an imp out of a bottle, without saying a word and headed off quickly towards Place Saint-Michel …’

  ‘What about the second man?’

  ‘He was short too … Anyway not very big, but strong, jet black hair.’

  ‘What about the uniformed officer in Place du Châtelet?’

  ‘It did happen. The man in the raincoat approached him, out of breath, looking wild-eyed. He waved his arms about and asked him to arrest someone who was following him but he couldn’t point him out in the crowd. The officer decided to make a note of it in his report, just in case.’

  ‘I want you to go to Place des Vosges. There’s a tobacconist’s on the corner of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois.’

  ‘Got it …’

  A shortish man, waves his arms about, wears a beige raincoat and a grey hat. That was the sum total of all that was known about him. There was nothing else to do now but stand by the window and watch the crowds stream out of offices and invade the bars, the pavement cafés and the restaurants. Paris was all light and life. As always happens, more pleasure was taken around the middle of February in the first gusts of spring than when spring finally arrived. And the newspapers would doubtless soon be talking of the famous chestnut tree on Boulevard Saint-Germain, which would be in flower a month from now.

  Maigret phoned down to the Brasserie Dauphine.

  ‘Hello? … Joseph? … Maigret … Can you bring me up a couple of beers and some sandwiches? … That’s right, for one …’

  Before the sandwiches arrived, the phone rang. He recognized the voice at once: he had told the switchboard to put these calls through immediately, without wasting a moment.

  ‘Hello? This time I think I’ve well and truly given him the slip …’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Nine’s husband. But that’s not important. There are at least four of them, not counting the woman … Someone absolutely must come at once and …’

  This time, he hadn’t had time to say where he was phoning from. Maigret called the woman at the exchange. It took a few minutes. The call had come from the Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle, a restaurant on Boulevard Beaumarchais, at no distance from the Bastille.

  This location wasn’t very far from Place des Vosges either. It was possible to track the meanderings of the shortish man in a raincoat within, or almost, the same neighbourhood of Paris.

  ‘Hello? Is that you Janvier? … I thought you might still be there …’

  Maigret was phoning him at the bar in Place des Vosges.

  ‘Go to the Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle … Yes … Keep the taxi …’

  An hour went by without a single phone call, without anything more being learned about Nine’s husband. When the phone did ring, it wasn’t him at the other end of the line but a café waiter.

  ‘Hello? Am I speaking to Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? … Inspector Maigret in person? … I am the waiter at the Café de Birague in Rue de Birague. I’m speaking on behalf of a customer who asked me to call you.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Maybe a quarter of an hour. I was supposed to phone straight away but it’s our busy time.’

  ‘A shortish man, wearing a raincoat?’

  ‘Yes. Right. I was afraid it was some sort of practical joke. He was in a terrible hurry. He kept looking out into the street … Wait, I want to get this right … As I remember, in his own words, he said to tell you that he’d try to lead the man to the Canon de la Bastille. Do you know it? It’s the brasserie on the corner of Boulevard Henri IV. He wanted you to send somebody pronto … Wait, that’s not all. I expect you’ll understand. He said, and these are his exact words: “It’s a different man. Now it’s the tall one with red hair, he’s the worst.”’

  Maigret went there himself. He got into a taxi, which took less than ten minutes to reach Place de la Bastille. The brasserie was a great barn of a place and quiet. Its customers were mostly regulars who ordered the dish of the day or a plate of charcuterie. He looked round for a man in a raincoat, then toured the coat racks hoping to spot a beige raincoat.

  ‘Tell me, waiter …’

  There were six waiters plus the woman at the till and the man who owned the place. He questioned them all. No one had seen his man. So he took a seat in a corner by the door, ordered a beer and waited, smoking his pipe. Half an hour later, sandwiches notwithstanding, he ordered a plate of sauerkraut and frankfurters. He watched people pass by on the pavement. Every time a raincoat appeared, he gave a start, and there were many of them, for the shower now falling was the third since that morning. The rain was translucent, transparent, the plain, innocent kind of rain which does not prevent the sun from shining.

  ‘Hello? … Police Judiciaire? … It’s Maigret. Has Janvier got back? Let me speak to him … Is that you, Janvier? … Jump in a taxi and meet me in the Canon de la Bastille … You’re right, today’s the day for bars. I’ll wait for you here … No, nothing new …’

  Too bad if the man with the windmill arms was a hoaxer. Maigret left his inspector to keep an eye on the Canon de la Bastille and used the taxi to go back to his office.

  The chances that Nine’s husband had been murdered since half past twelve were slim, because he did not seem keen to venture down backstreets. On the contrary, he chose busy parts of town and main thoroughfares. Even so, Maigret contacted the emergency services, which kept constantly up to date about any trouble that happened in Paris.

  ‘If you are informed that a man in a raincoat has had an accident or been involved in an argument or whatever, give me a ring …’

  He also gave instructions for one of the Police Judiciaire’s squad cars to be kept available for him in the courtyard of Quai des Orfèvres. This was perhaps excessive, but he was merely stacking the odds on his side.

  He talked to people who came to his office, smoked many pipes and stoked his stove from time to time, while keeping his window open, and occasionally aimed a reproachful look at his phone, which remained resolutely silent.

  ‘You used to know my wife …’ the man had said.

  He tried idly to remember a Nine. He must have met many of that name. He had known one, a few years before, who ran a small bar in Cannes, but she had been an old lady even then and was probably dead by now. There was also a niece of his wife’s whose name was Aline, but everybody called her Nine.

  ‘Hello? Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’

  It was four o’clock. It was still broad daylight but the inspector had switched on his desk lamp with the green shade. />
  ‘I am the postmaster at 28, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. I’m sorry to bother you. It’s probably some sort of hoax. A few minutes ago a customer approached the counter that deals with registered parcels … Hello? … The counter-clerk, Mademoiselle Denfer, told me that he seemed to be in a great hurry. He kept turning round. He pushed a piece of paper under her nose. He said: “Don’t try to understand. Phone this message through to Inspector Maigret at once.” Then he vanished into the crowd.

  ‘The member of staff concerned reported this to me. I have the piece of paper in front of me. It’s written in pencil, a terrible scrawl. Looks like the man wrote the note while he was walking along.

  ‘This is what it says: “I couldn’t make it to the Canon”. Does that mean anything to you? It’s meaningless to me. But no matter. Then there’s a word I can’t read. “Now there’s two of them. The small dark one has come back.” It’s the word “dark” I’m not sure of … Say again? … Fair enough, if that’s what you think it says … There’s more: “I’m sure they’ve decided to get me today. I’m not far from the Quai. But they’re cunning. Warn your officers to be on their guard.”

  ‘That’s it. If you want, I’ll send the note by telegram messenger … By taxi? Most certainly. Provided that you bear the cost, because I cannot undertake …’

  ‘Hello? … Janvier? … You can come back now.’

  Half an hour later the two of them sat smoking in Maigret’s office, where a small round patch of red showed under the stove.

  ‘I expect you managed to find time to have lunch?’

  ‘I had sauerkraut and frankfurters at the Canon …’

  Him as well! Meantime, Maigret had alerted cycle-mounted patrols as well as the municipal police. Parisians who walked into department stores, jostled each other on pavements, flocked into cinemas or hurried down the steps of Métro stations, did not notice a thing. But hundreds of eyes scrutinized the crowds, pausing on anyone wearing a beige raincoat or sporting a grey hat.

  There was another sharp shower at about five o’clock, when the number of pedestrians in and around the Châtelet reached its peak. The pavements glistened, a halo surrounded every streetlamp and along every kerb, at intervals of ten metres, people stood and raised their arms every time a taxi drove past.

  ‘The landlord of the Caves du Beaujolais reckons he’s thirty-five or forty. The man who runs the Tabac des Vosges puts him at about thirty. He’s clean-shaven, rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed. As to what kind of man he is, I didn’t manage to form any idea. I was told that you see lots like him about …’

  Madame Maigret, who was having her sister to dinner, phoned at six to make sure her husband wouldn’t be home late and to ask him to call in at the pâtisserie on his way home.

  ‘Can you keep an eye on things here until nine? I’ll get Lucas to replace you after that …’

  Janvier was willing. There was nothing to do but wait.

  ‘I want to be phoned at home if there are any developments.’

  He did not forget to call in at the pâtisserie in Avenue de la République, the only one in Paris, said Madame Maigret, capable of making a decent mille-feuille. He kissed his sister-in-law, who as always smelled of lavender. They ate dinner. He drank a glass of calvados. Before walking Odette to the Métro, he rang the Police Judiciaire.

  ‘Lucas? … Any news? … Are you still in my office?’

  Lucas, ensconced in Maigret’s own chair, probably had his feet propped up on the desk, reading.

  ‘Just carry on as you are. Good night.’

  As he walked back from the Métro station, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir was deserted, and his footsteps were loud on the pavement. Hearing other footsteps behind him, he stiffened, turned instinctively because he was thinking about his man who even now was perhaps still wandering through the streets, fearful, avoiding dark places, seeking safety in bars and cafés.

  He fell asleep before his wife – so she said at least, as she always did, just as she also claimed that he snored – and the alarm-clock on the bedside table registered 2.20 when the phone dragged him from his sleep. It was Lucas.

  ‘Maybe I’m disturbing you for nothing, sir. I haven’t got many details yet. But the duty desk of the Police Emergency Service has just let me know that the body of a man has been found in Place de la Concorde. Near Quai des Tuileries. That’s the jurisdiction of the first arrondissement. I’ve asked the main station there not to touch anything … What? … Fine. If you wish. I’ll send a taxi for you.’

  Madame Maigret sighed as she watched her husband who got into his trousers but couldn’t find his shirt.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be gone long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Couldn’t you send one of your inspectors instead?’

  When he opened the sideboard in the dining room, she knew he was about to pour himself a tot of calvados. Then he came back for his pipes, which he had forgotten.

  The taxi was waiting for him. The Grands Boulevards were almost deserted. A huge moon, far brighter than usual, hung over the green dome of the Opera House.

  Place de la Concorde. Two cars were parked one behind the other along the kerb, near the Tuileries Gardens, and shadowy figures came and went.

  The first thing Maigret noticed as he got out of the taxi was the smudge made by a beige raincoat on the silvery pavement.

  Then, as police officers in capes stepped aside and an inspector from the arrondissement advanced to meet him, he muttered:

  ‘So it wasn’t a hoax. They really did for him!’

  The sound of lapping blew on a cool breeze off the Seine, which was no distance away. Traffic emerging from Rue Royale moved noiselessly towards the Champs-Élysées.

  The electric sign outside Maxim’s was a red presence in the night.

  ‘Single wound with a knife, sir,’ said Inspector Lequeux, whom Maigret knew well. ‘We were waiting for you before we moved him.’

  What was it at that moment that gave Maigret the feeling that there was something here that was not quite right?

  Place de la Concorde was too big, too light, too airy with, at its centre, the tall, bold white needle of the obelisk. None of this seemed to belong to the same world as the phone calls he had got that morning from the Caves du Beaujolais, the Tabac des Vosges and the Quatre Sergents on Boulevard Beaumarchais.

  Up to and including that last call and the note handed in at the post office on Rue du Daubourg Saint-Denis, the man had confined himself to a part of town known for its narrow, well-populated streets.

  Does a man who knows he is being followed, who senses there is a murderer breathing down his neck and is expecting the fatal blow to fall at any moment, suddenly switch to wide open spaces like Place de la Concorde?

  ‘You’ll find that he wasn’t killed here …’

  Confirmation would come an hour later when Officer Piedbœuf, who had been on duty outside a nightclub in Rue de Douai, filed his report.

  A car had pulled up at the door of the club. In it were two men in dinner suits and two women in evening clothes. All four were in high spirits, slightly the worse for drink, one of the men in particular. As the others went inside, he turned on his heel and came back.

  ‘Ah, officer … I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing saying this, because I don’t want to ruin our evening. But it can’t be helped. You can make of it what you like. Just now, as we were driving across Place de la Concorde, the car in front of us stopped. I was driving and slowed, thinking that it had broken down. They pulled something out of the car and dumped it on the pavement. I think it was a body …

  ‘The car was a yellow Citroën,
with a Paris registration. The last two digits on the number plate were a 3 and an 8.’

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