Maigret and the Minister

by Georges Simenon

  Georges Simenon

  * * *

  MAIGRET AND THE MINISTER

  Translated by ROS SCHWARTZ

  Contents

  1. The Explosive Calame Report

  2. The Telephone Call from the President

  3. The Stranger in the Little Bar

  4. Lucas is Not Pleased

  5. The Professor’s Scruples

  6. Lunch at the Filet de Sole

  7. Maigret’s Taxis

  8. The Trip to Seineport

  9. The Night at the Ministry

  Follow Penguin

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.

  Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic:

  My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points … ‘understand and judge not’.

  Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  MAIGRET AND THE MINISTER

  ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’

  – John Banville

  ‘A brilliant writer’

  – India Knight

  ‘Intense atmosphere and resonant detail … make Simenon’s fiction remarkably like life’

  – Julian Barnes

  ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’

  – Muriel Spark

  ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’

  – A. N. Wilson

  ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’

  – John Gray

  ‘A writer of genius, one whose simplicity of language creates indelible images that the florid stylists of our own day can only dream of’

  – Daily Mail

  ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’

  – Anita Brookner

  ‘One of the greatest writers of our time’

  – The Sunday Times

  ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’

  – William Faulkner

  ‘One of the great psychological novelists of this century’

  – Independent

  ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’

  – André Gide

  ‘Simenon ought to be spoken of in the same breath as Camus, Beckett and Kafka’

  – Independent on Sunday

  1. The Explosive Calame Report

  As always when he returned home at night, Maigret paused at the same place, just past the gas lamp, and looked up at the lit windows of his apartment. He was no longer even aware of doing so. Had he been asked point-blank if there was a light on or not, he might have been uncertain. Also out of habit, on the stairs between the second and the third floor, he would start unbuttoning his overcoat to take the key from his trouser pocket, even though the door invariably opened the moment he stepped on to the mat. These rituals established over the years mattered to him more than he cared to admit. For instance, his wife had a particular way of taking his wet umbrella from his hands at the same time as inclining her head to kiss him on the cheek, although she didn’t this evening because it wasn’t raining.

  As usual, he asked:

  ‘No telephone calls?’

  Closing the door, she replied:

  ‘Yes, there was one. I’m afraid there’s no point taking off your coat.’

  The day had been overcast, neither cold nor warm, with a sudden downpour at around two o’clock in the afternoon. At Quai des Orfèvres, Maigret had done nothing but deal with routine matters.

  ‘Did you have a nice dinner?’

  The light in their apartment was cosier, more intimate than at the office. He could see the newspapers and his slippers waiting by his armchair.

  ‘I had dinner at the Brasserie Dauphine with the chief, Lucas and Janvier.’

  Then the four of them had gone to the Police Association meeting. For the past three years, Maigret had been elected vice chairman despite his unwillingness.

  ‘You have time for a cup of coffee. You might as well take off your coat. I said you wouldn’t be home before eleven.’

  It was half past ten. The meeting had not lasted long. A small group of them had gone for a beer in a brasserie and Maigret had come home on the Métro.

  ‘Who telephoned?’

  ‘A minister.’

  Standing in the middle of the living room, he frowned at her.

  ‘Which minister?’

  ‘The one for public works. His name is Point, if I heard him correctly.’

  ‘Auguste Point, yes. He telephoned here? In person?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell him to call Quai des Orfèvres?’

  ‘It’s you he wants to speak to. He needs to see you right away. When I told him you weren’t home, he asked if I was the maid. He sounded annoyed. I said I was Madame Maigret. He apologized and wanted to know where you were, when you’d be back. He gave me the impression he was a shy man.’

  ‘That’s not his reputation.’

  ‘He even asked me whether I was alone or not. Then he explained that his phone call must remain a secret, that he wasn’t telephoning from the ministry but from a public booth, and that he needed to talk to you as soon as possible.’

  All the time she was speaking Maigret looked at her, still frowning, with an expression that spoke volumes about his distaste for politics. On several occasions, over the course of his career, a statesman, deputy, senator or some high-up figure had requested his services, but always through the usual channels. Each time he had been called in to see the chief and, each time, the conversation had begun with:

  ‘I’m sorry, Maigret, I’m putting you in charge of a case you’re not going to like.’

  And, invariably, they were rather unpleasant cases.

  He did not know Auguste Point personally and had never seen him in the flesh. He wasn’t one of those politicians who were always in the papers.

  ‘Why didn’t he telephone HQ?’

  He was talking more to himself, but Madame Maigret replied all the same:

  ‘How should I know? I’m just repeating what he said to me. Firstly, that he was calling from a public booth …’

  That detail had struck Madame Maigret, for whom a government minister was a person of considerable importance, and she found it hard to imagine him going into a public phone booth on some street corner at night.

  ‘… then, that you were not to go to the ministry, but to his private apartment …’

  She glanced at a piece of paper on which she’d scribbled a few words.

  ‘… 27, Boulevard Pasteur. You don’t need to disturb the concierge. It’s on the fourth floor, the left-hand door.’

  ‘Is he waiting there for me?’

  ‘He’ll wait as long as he has to. But he should be back at the ministry before midnight, to keep up appearances.’

  Changing her tone, she asked:

  ‘Do you think it’s a prank?’

  He shook his head. It was certainly unusual, odd, but it didn’t sound like a prank.

  ‘Are you going to drink your coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you. Not on top of beer.’

  He got up a
nd poured himself a drop of sloe gin, took a fresh pipe from the mantelpiece and headed for the door.

  ‘See you later.’

  When he stepped out on to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, the damp that had been in the air all day began to condense into a dusty fog that formed a halo around the lights. He did not hail a taxi; it would be just as quick to get to Boulevard Pasteur by Métro. Perhaps his reluctance was also because he didn’t feel this was official business.

  All the way there, staring absently at a moustachioed gentleman opposite him who was reading the newspaper, he wondered what Auguste Point could want of him, and particularly why he wanted such an urgent and secretive meeting.

  What he knew about Point was that he was a lawyer from Vendée – from La Roche-sur-Yon, if he wasn’t mistaken – who had entered politics late in life. He was one of those deputies elected after the war for their integrity and their conduct during the Occupation.

  What he had done exactly, Maigret didn’t know. The fact remained that while some of his colleagues passed through the Chamber without leaving any trace, Point had been re-elected time and again and had been given the public works portfolio three months earlier, during the formation of the latest cabinet.

  Maigret had not heard any rumours about him, unlike most politicians who were dogged by gossip. His wife kept out of the public eye, and so did his children, if he had any.

  By the time he emerged from the Métro at Pasteur, the fog had thickened and turned yellowish and Maigret recognized the dusty tang on his lips. He saw no one in the street but could hear footsteps in the distance, towards Montparnasse, and, from the same direction, a train whistling as it left the station.

  Some windows were still lit and, in the haze, they exuded an air of calm, of security. These buildings, neither luxurious nor poor, neither new nor old, with apartments that were all very similar, were the homes of middle-class people – teachers, civil servants and office workers, who took their Métro or their bus at the same time every day.

  He pressed the bell and, when the door opened, muttered an inaudible name as he made his way over to the lift.

  The cramped two-person cage ascended slowly but smoothly and silently through the gloomy stairwell. The doors on each landing were painted the same dark brown, and the doormats were identical.

  He rang the bell of the left-hand door, which opened at once, as if someone had been waiting, their hand on the knob.

  Point took three steps forwards to send the lift back down, which Maigret had not thought to do.

  ‘I apologize for having brought you out so late,’ he muttered. ‘Come this way …’

  Madame Maigret would have been disappointed because he was as different as possible from how she imagined a minister. He was just like Maigret in height and build, only broader and more rugged. He looked like a farmer, and his strong features, his large nose and his mouth made Maigret think of a head carved out of chestnut.

  He was wearing a greyish, nondescript suit and a ready-knotted tie. Two things were particularly striking: his bushy eyebrows, as wide and thick as a moustache, and the long hairs on his hands.

  He looked Maigret up and down unashamedly, without even giving a polite smile.

  ‘Have a seat, inspector.’

  The apartment, smaller than Maigret’s on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, could not have comprised more than two rooms, perhaps three, and a tiny kitchen. From the hall, where a few items of clothing hung, they went into a study that resembled a bachelor’s lodgings. There were some pipes in a rack on the wall, ten or twelve, several of clay, and a very fine meerschaum. An old-fashioned writing desk, with pigeon-holes and lots of little drawers, like the one that had once belonged to Maigret’s father, was strewn with papers and ash. He did not dare look at the photographs on the walls immediately – Point’s father and mother, in the same black-and-gold frames that he would have found in a farmhouse in Vendée.

  Sitting in his swivel chair, again just like the one Maigret’s father used to have, Point casually caressed a box of cigars.

  ‘I suppose …’ he began.

  Maigret smiled and muttered:

  ‘I prefer my pipe.’

  ‘Tobacco?’

  The minister offered him an open packet of shag and re-lit a pipe he had allowed to go out.

  ‘You must have been surprised when your wife told you …’

  He was trying to find a way to begin the conversation but was not happy with his opening. Something quite strange was occurring. In the peaceful, warm study, the two of them, of the same build and around the same age, sat watching each other quite openly. It was as if they were discovering similarities, intrigued by the resemblance but hesitant to acknowledge each other as brothers.

  ‘Listen, Maigret. There’s no point speechifying. I only know you from reading about you in the papers and from what I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘The same here, minister.’

  Point gave a dismissive wave as if to say that there was no need for formality between them.

  ‘I’m in a jam. So far, no one knows, no one has any idea; not the president of the Council, not even my wife, who usually knows about everything I do. You’re the person I called.’

  He looked away for a moment and puffed on his pipe as if embarrassed by what he had just said, which might sound like flattery or self-interest.

  ‘I didn’t want to go through the usual channels and speak to the head of the Police Judiciaire. Contacting you directly is irregular. You weren’t under any obligation to come, and you have no obligation to help me.’

  He rose with a sigh.

  ‘Will you have a little drink?’

  And, with what could pass for a smile:

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not trying to bribe you. It is just that this evening I really need a drink.’

  He went into the adjacent room and came back with a bottle that had already been opened and two tumblers like those used in country inns.

  ‘It’s just the local brandy that my father distils every autumn. This one is around twenty years old.’

  Glass in hand, they looked at one another.

  ‘To your health.’

  ‘To yours, minister.’

  This time, Point did not appear to hear the last word.

  ‘If I don’t know where to begin, it’s not because I feel awkward in front of you, but because it’s difficult to tell the story clearly. Do you read the newspapers?’

  ‘On evenings when the miscreants leave me the leisure.’

  ‘Do you follow politics?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You know that I am not what people call a politician?’

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘Right! You’ve heard, of course, about the Clairfond disaster?’

  This time Maigret couldn’t help giving a shudder, and a certain disappointment, a certain wariness must have shown on his face, because Point bowed his head, adding in a low voice:

  ‘Unfortunately, that’s what this is about.’

  Earlier, in the Métro, Maigret had tried to guess what the minister wanted to talk to him about in secret. He hadn’t thought of the Clairfond affair, which the papers had been full of for the past month.

  The Clairfond sanatorium in Haute-Savoie, between Ugine and Megève, at an altitude of over 1,400 metres, was one of the most spectacular post-war constructions.

  Maigret could not remember who had floated the idea of building for the most disadvantaged children an establishment on a par with modern private sanatoria, because it had been a few years back. There had been a lot of talk about it at the time. Some thought the motivation was purely political, and there had been heated arguments in the Chamber. A special committee had been set up to examine the project, which had eventually been built after years of opposition.

  A month earlier, disaster had struck, one of the most appalling ever. The snows had begun to thaw earlier than had ever happened within living memory. The mountain torrents had swollen, as had a subterranean river
, the Lize, such a minor river that it wasn’t even on the maps, but it had undermined the foundations of an entire wing of Clairfond.

  The investigation, begun immediately after the disaster, was still underway. The experts couldn’t agree. And the newspapers, depending on their stripe, defended different theories.

  One hundred and twenty-eight children had died when one of the buildings had collapsed, and the others had been urgently evacuated.

  After a moment’s silence, Maigret muttered:

  ‘You weren’t a member of the cabinet when Clairfond was built, were you?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t even a member of the parliamentary commission that voted to fund it. The fact is that until a few days ago, all I knew about the affair was what everyone else knows from the newspapers.’

  He took a while.

  ‘You’ve heard of the Calame Report, inspector?’

  Maigret looked at him in surprise and shook his head.

  ‘You will do. You’ll probably hear too much about it. I don’t suppose you read the weeklies, La Rumeur, for example?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Do you know Hector Tabard?’

  ‘By name and reputation. My colleagues at Rue des Saussaies must know him better than I do.’

  He was alluding to the Sûreté Nationale, which was often given missions directly or indirectly related to politics since it was under the authority of the Ministry of the Interior.

  Tabard was a corrupt journalist whom the weekly scandal sheet used when they wanted to blackmail someone.

  ‘Read this, it was published six days after the tragedy.’

  It was brief, enigmatic:

  Will they decide, one day, under the pressure of public opinion, to disclose the contents of the Calame Report?

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Maigret, surprised.

  ‘Here’s a quote from the following issue.’

  Contrary to the generally accepted idea, it is not over foreign policy or because of the events in North Africa that the current government will be brought down before spring is out, but because of the Calame Report. Who is in possession of the Calame Report?