Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London

by Margaret de Rohan

  ‘You’re probably right, my love. And perhaps I will go. But only if you come with me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. What would I do at Scotland Yard? I’d be like a fish out of water! You go and I’ll catch up on some errands while you’re away.’

  ‘No, Megan. Either we both go or I don’t go at all.’

  Hmm, she thought. He called me Megan. He must be serious. Looks like I might actually have to go.

  So lunch for both of them at Scotland Yard the next day became a fait accompli. And who would ever have imagined that a simple act like accepting a lunch invitation would have such far-reaching consequences?

  Chapter Three

  The sleek black Jaguar pulled up outside the entrance to the apartment building at precisely 12 noon the next day. The police driver was not wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, but he might just as well have been, because everyone who saw the car knew the score, especially Preston Heywood, the head porter.

  Hmm, I wonder whose car this is, he thought. I certainly know a Government car when I see one, and the driver looks suspiciously like a cop to me. The driver left the car, unattended and with the motor running, and entered the lobby. The first two actions were prohibited under the building’s regulations, but Preston did not object.

  ‘I’m here for Chief Inspector Maigret,’ the driver said. ‘I understand he’s staying with one of your residents, a Mrs Lisle. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it is sir. I’ll just phone to let her know the car’s here.’ A chief inspector, Preston thought as he made the call. Can I pick ‘em or can I pick ‘em? He prided himself that he was a good judge of character, and most of the time he was right. I knew from the off that Mrs Lisle’s house guest was no ordinary French tourist. That man is used to being in charge. He has the mark of authority stamped all over him. We must certainly watch our step for the next few days, that’s for sure.

  ‘We’ll be down in a moment, Preston,’ Megan said, when she answered the phone. And indeed they were.

  Half an hour later they were being shown into a pleasant room on the third floor of Scotland Yard. In a connecting room Megan could see a table laid for lunch. Considerable care had been taken with that table: the cloth was crisp and white, the glasses sparkled in the sunlight, and the plates and cutlery shone. In the centre of the table was a large crystal bowl of cream roses, white freesias, and blue irises, all beautifully arranged. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make a favourable impression, Megan thought, as she surveyed the scene. Then she turned her attention to the people: four men and a woman, each holding a glass of wine, had been deep in conversation when she and Philippe entered. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they had been engaged in small talk, while waiting for the guests of honour. Looks like we’re the main event, she thought, with her heart sinking. How I dread these kinds of functions!

  As though he could read her mind, Philippe squeezed her hand.

  ‘Courage, my love,’ he whispered, ‘I promise I won’t let them eat you.’

  Two of the men, and the woman, were introduced as ‘Inspector Somebody-or-other’ – Megan instantly forgot their surnames – while the two remaining men were Chief Inspectors, the same rank as Philippe Maigret. The more senior Chief Inspector, a tall, well-built man, whose name was Clive Scott, seemed to be hosting the lunch. He welcomed them warmly and said he hoped the lunch would ‘further the spirit of informal cooperation – the entente cordiale – which already existed between the police forces of France and the UK.’

  Megan thought that unlikely, given the amount of arm twisting she’d had to do to get Philippe to accept the Met’s invitation, but she smiled politely, and nodded in agreement.

  When Chief Inspector Scott had finished speaking, Philippe decided it was time for him to set the record straight.

  ‘Firstly, thank you, Chief Inspector Scott, for the kind words of welcome, which we both greatly appreciate. Secondly, in the interest of a pleasant lunch, and with due consideration for our digestive systems, let me set your minds at rest. I am in London for a week, for purely personal reasons. Mrs Lisle and I are to be married at the end of June and there are arrangements to be made.’

  Best wishes and congratulations, with much hand-shaking, followed this piece of news.

  ‘And finally,’ he continued, ‘let me further assure you that I have no particular information, or intelligence, of anything that might be of importance to Scotland Yard, or any other police authority in the UK. My visit to London is simply for pleasure. In other words, lady and gentlemen, you have your troubles and I have mine, but I know nothing about yours that you don’t already know!’

  There was a collective, but silent sigh of relief from most of the Met officers, but one of them was not convinced. If only I could believe him, Chief Inspector Scott thought. But I can’t. Not completely. There are too many coincidences in all this for me to take what he’s just said at face value.

  When they had finished their lunch and were waiting for coffee to be served, Chief Inspector Scott, who was seated next to Philippe Maigret, said quietly, ‘I wonder if I might have a private word with you, Chief Inspector? I don’t need long – just a few minutes in my office down the hall.’

  Philippe Maigret frowned. Now what’s he up to, he thought. ‘Is that really necessary? This has been a pleasant occasion, and I’ve already said that I don’t have any information that would be of interest to you. Can’t we just leave it at that, Chief Inspector, bearing in mind that I’m supposed to be on holiday?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. And actually it’s I who has some information for you, Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘Okay, but let’s make it quick.’

  The two men left their seats, and Chief Inspector Scott led the way towards the door, but Philippe made a small detour. He walked around to the other side of the table and bent down to kiss Megan’s cheek.

  ‘It’s just a little police business, darling,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t be long.’ Then he followed Chief Inspector Scott out of the door.

  Hmm, thought Inspector Janice Gilbert, who was watching, I wonder if he gives lessons. If he does I’m signing my husband up for the full course immediately!

  When they reached his office, the Met Chief Inspector showed Philippe Maigret a photograph.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a person of interest to us.’

  ‘But not to me,’ Philippe said looking impatiently towards the open door.

  ‘Wait! There’s more. At first we thought he was just a chancer caught up in a counterfeiting racket. That would have been bad enough, but now we think he might be involved in something much bigger.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the things that give policemen nightmares, especially after what happened in London on the 7th July 2005.’

  ‘You think he’s an opportunist turned bomber? That seems unlikely to me, Chief Inspector. In all my years as a policeman I’ve never heard of any low-level criminal making such a career change. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Some time ago we received a tip-off from the Belgian police that counterfeit £20 notes were being smuggled into the country through the Channel Tunnel: modest amounts, just to test the water, as it were, to see if they could be passed off without being noticed. I don’t want to go into much detail, but our enquiries eventually led us to one Serge Vachon, who’s in and out of Belgian, Northern France, and other parts of the EU, numerous times each month. So we put him under observation for a couple of weeks, and recognised one of the people coming to his house. Now we think the counterfeiting was only a side-line to raise cash for a much bigger operation. As you know, villains are more sophisticated these days.’

  ‘That’s certainly true.’

  ‘And Serge Vachon is usually something of a loner, which makes us even more suspicious. He has an interesting background: his father is Russian, his mother French, and he’s ex-army.’

  �
��Ah, I see – some of the classic ingredients for trouble-makers. But Vachon is a French name, not Russian.’

  ‘Yes. He seems to have taken his mother’s maiden name, in order to disguise the Russian connection.’

  ‘But what has all this to do with me?’ Philippe Maigret asked impatiently.

  ‘Perhaps you might recognise this woman, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Is this some new game now? Or have you suddenly changed the rules?’ Philippe Maigret asked coldly.

  ‘No game, just a photograph of a woman for you to identify – if you should know her.’

  ‘Of course I know her! This woman is my ex-wife, as you are obviously very well aware.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the first Madame Maigret.’

  ‘The only time she used that name was when she thought it might get her off a speeding ticket, or a parking fine. And that was during the marriage. I can’t imagine she’s used it since we’ve been divorced. Her name is Nicole Girard.’

  ‘That’s not the name she’s been known by in the four years she’s lived here,’ Chief Inspector Scott replied. ‘Now she calls herself Nicole Vachon, and all the time she’s been in England she’s been living with this Serge Vachon. Perhaps it would interest you to learn that they live in Maida Vale, just a mile or two from Mrs Lisle’s apartment. Then, as if this wasn’t enough, you turn up, Chief Inspector Maigret, out of the blue and uninvited, for a secret assignation… ’

  ‘No assignation, Chief Inspector Scott, and no cloak and dagger business either,’ Philippe Maigret interrupted angrily. ‘I came to London by public transport, and in broad daylight, to discuss wedding plans with Mrs Lisle. I advise you to choose your next words very carefully, because you’re on dangerous ground now.’

  ‘No offence was intended, I assure you, Chief Inspector,’ the Met officer replied. Good, he thought, I’ve rattled his cage. Now let’s see if I can poke a hole in his armour.

  ‘However, offence was taken. So be more careful in what you say.’

  ‘I apologise. But you can see how all this looks to us can’t you? I don’t like all these coincidences, they make me nervous. They’re not logical.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly, Chief Inspector,’ Philippe said, relaxing slightly. ‘And I can see why you’re concerned. But what do you want from me?’

  ‘We want your help. We want you to find out what Nicole Vachon’s partner is up to now!’

  ‘Are you mad? This is not my jurisdiction. I have no authority in England.’ ‘Leave that to us, we can handle the necessary paper-work, if you would agree to speak to your ex-wife, informally, on our behalf.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Chief Inspector Scott looked steadfastly into Philippe Maigret’s eyes so there could be no misunderstanding in what he was about to say.

  ‘Because if you don’t help us now, there’s a good chance it might be your turn, on your patch next time. What’s it to be? Either we stop Serge Vachon here and now, or you can deal with him in Paris, sometime in the future. It’s your choice, Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  With these words Philippe felt chills running through his body. It was as though someone had walked over his grave. For while he did not believe in coincidences, he was, to some extent, superstitious, and to hear those words, so similar to the ones he’d spoken to Megan the morning before, seemed like an omen. And a very, very bad omen at that. ‘She won’t tell me anything!’ he managed to say.

  ‘She might. You could at least try.’

  ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Chief Inspector Scott. Nicole might have been quite happy to bend the rules when it suited her purposes, but I can’t believe she’d get involved in anything illegal. And especially not something like a criminal conspiracy.’

  ‘How long since you’ve seen her, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘Don’t you think she might just have changed in all that time?’

  ‘Maybe, but not nearly as much as you suggest. And I’m telling you she won’t speak to me. I haven’t heard a peep out of her since the divorce was finalised.’

  ‘If she won’t speak to you then perhaps she might talk to Megan Lisle. I understand she’s a perceptive woman. From what I hear, she and her young granddaughter certainly saved your hide when you put the wrong man on trial in Paris last month.’

  ‘You’re remarkably well informed, Chief Inspector Scott. Should I be looking for a Scotland Yard spy at Paris HQ?’

  ‘Would we do that to our French colleagues? No mole, I assure you. However, we do live in a global village these days and word gets around about such er… embarrassments.’

  I’ll just bet it does, Philippe Maigret thought wryly. Especially when it’s the French who are on the receiving end of the embarrassment! ‘This is all academic anyway, Chief Inspector, because I won’t let Mrs Lisle do it. And that’s final.’

  ‘And exactly what won’t you let me do, Philippe?’ Megan asked, standing in the doorway.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, Philippe,’ Megan said as they walked towards the lift a few minutes later. Not if you want to have a long happy marriage.’

  ‘What, my love?’

  ‘And don’t try to sweet talk me either. I want to stay cross with you for a long time!’

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘And don’t speak French, either.’

  ‘But I am French, darling. It’s what we do. It’s my mother tongue.’

  ‘Now you’re laughing at me!’ And he was.

  However, by the time the lift had reached the ground floor, they had kissed and made up. But only after Philippe Maigret had solemnly promised, with his hand on his heart, that he would never again – in this or any other Universe! – presume to speak on Megan’s behalf without first knowing her thoughts on the subject under discussion.

  The next day Chief Inspector Scott’s hastily arranged information gathering plan was put into action, but not without opposition.

  ‘This is the most ludicrous surveillance operation in which I’ve ever had the misfortune to be involved,’ Philippe Maigret said. It was not the first time he’d voiced his objections but now he was incredulous. ‘Two strangers, one dressed like a vicar, walk in off the street to ask for old books? How believable is that? It will never work. Who would do such a thing? Nicole will smell a rat the moment you’re inside the door. Assuming she actually lets you in the door in the first place.’

  ‘Of course it will work. People do it all the time in the summer when the local churches are having their fairs. I’ve done it lots of times myself,’ Megan said calmly.

  ‘They just give you their old books? It’s incredible! Are these people mad? Have they no souls?’ At that moment the penny dropped for Megan. ‘Sweetie, you do realise that we’re not talking about antique books or First Editions, don’t you? People give us paperbacks or old travel guides and children’s books. Any books they no longer need but that other people might like. And not just books. Bric-a-brac and old pieces of jewellery too. People donate lots of saleable things, especially when it’s for a church or a charity. It’s an upmarket form of recycling. Don’t people do that in Paris?’

  Philippe shrugged. ‘Maybe, in the marché aux puces or places like that, but not where… ’

  ‘Oh, I see! In the flea market, but not in the 16th arrondissement, or any other posh parts of Paris, like those where chief inspectors might choose to live.’

  ‘And now you’re calling me a snob as well as an ignoramus,’ he laughed. ‘Which is unfair because you know where I live and it’s not in the 16th!’

  An hour later, Megan Lisle together with the chubby Met policeman, Sergeant Andrew Gillespie – looking slightly red-faced and uncomfortable in his vicar’s collar – started their door-knocking assignment in the small development of mews houses where Nicole and the mysterious Serge Vachon lived. To make this seem more real they knocked on the first door they came to, in case they were being watched. No one was home. At num
ber two they scored a dozen dog-eared paperbacks mostly written by Philip Pullman or Jeffrey Archer. And a few more were donated at number three. Finally they reached the fourth house which was Nicole’s. This time there was a door bell which they rang. No answer. They rang again.

  ‘Looks like no one’s home,’ Andy Gillespie said, wiping perspiration off his face.

  ‘I think someone is. I just saw a curtain twitch upstairs. Ring the bell again, Andy, and remember, you do the talking and I’ll just observe.’

  ‘Gotcha.’

  He rang the bell again, this time more vigorously and for a longer time.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Megan whispered. ‘This is it: curtain up and best foot forward!’ She could hardly wait to see the woman to whom Philippe Maigret had once been married. Not that she was jealous or anything. Oh, no – not much!

  ‘Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses or Seventh Day Adventists?’ Nicole asked sharply when she finally opened the door. She had an artist’s brush parked behind her right ear, there was a smudge of red paint on one cheek, and more than a trace of an accent. She had worn well, but she was no beauty, Megan thought.

  ‘Neither, we’re just plain old Anglicans,’ replied Andy pleasantly. ‘I do hope we haven’t come at a bad time, Madam.’

  ‘Well actually you have. What do you want?’ By now Andy Gillespie had his foot wedged firmly in the door so it couldn’t be shut in their faces. She looked suspiciously at Megan who remained silent.

  ‘We’re from St Luke’s, down the road. We wondered if you might have some old books you could donate for our summer fair.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Or anything at all, it doesn’t really matter,’ Andy persisted. ‘Perhaps you have some bric-a-brac, or art of some kind. I see you’re an artist; perhaps you might donate some of your own work as a raffle prize?’

  ‘I feel faint,’ Megan said weakly. ‘It’s the heat. I need a glass of water. I must sit down for a moment.’