Maigret, Lognon and the Gangsters

by Georges Simenon

  Pozzo crossed himself jokily.

  ‘Do you understand? We’re not in America, where it’s hard work proving pretty much anything.’

  ‘You’re hurting my feelings, inspector. Really, I wasn’t expecting this from you.’

  Then, holding up his glass, he said:

  ‘Cheers! And there I was, so happy to meet you! I’d heard all about you, like everybody. I thought to myself: “Now, there’s a man who knows about life.” Then you come and see me and treat me as if it was news to you that Pozzo has never harmed a soul. You go on about some little boxer who I haven’t seen for ten or fifteen years, insinuating something or other.’

  ‘Enough! I’m not having an argument today. I’ve warned you. I’ve said we’re dealing with a murder.’

  ‘Strange I haven’t read anything about it in the papers. Who was killed?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. If Charlie and Cicero have been here, if you have the slightest idea of where they are, I’ll see you’re charged with complicity.’

  Pozzo shook his head sadly.

  ‘You’d do that to me.’

  ‘Have they been here?’

  ‘When are you claiming they walked through my door?’

  ‘Have they been here?’

  ‘We get so many people passing through! At times all the tables are full, and there are people queuing out into the street. I can’t see everything that goes on.’

  ‘Have they been here?’

  ‘Listen. We’re going to make a deal, and you’ll see that Pozzo can be a real friend. I promise that if they set foot in here I will telephone you immediately. Is that on the level, eh? Tell me what this Cicero looks like.’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘So how do you expect me to recognize him? Am I meant to ask my customers for their passports? Is that what I’m meant to do? I’m married; I’ve got a family. I have always respected the laws of whatever country I’m in. I might as well tell you: I’ve applied for French citizenship.’

  ‘After being granted American citizenship?’

  ‘That was a mistake. I don’t like the climate over there. I’m sure your friend will understand.’

  He gave Lognon a bitterly ironic look, and Lognon blew his nose for a long time, not knowing where to turn.

  ‘Waiter!’ called Maigret.

  ‘I’ve already told you that you’re my guest.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t accept.’

  ‘I’d take that as an insult.’

  ‘That’s your choice. Waiter! Bring me the bill.’

  Maigret was not really as angry as he seemed. Pozzo was a tough customer, but he didn’t mind that. Nor did he mind dealing with characters who had got the better of the American police. Genuine hard men who played for keeps. MacDonald had said Cinaglia was a killer, hadn’t he? It would be quite enjoyable telephoning Washington in a few days and casually saying, ‘Hello, Jimmy! . . . I’ve got them.’

  Maigret hadn’t the slightest idea of the identity of the man who had been tipped out on to the pavement on Rue Fléchier, almost at Inspector Lognon’s feet. He didn’t even know if the stranger was dead or not.

  As for the second car, which had taken charge of the corpse, or wounded man, or whatever it was, that was even more of a blank.

  As far as he could tell, two groups were involved. The first comprised, at the very least, Charlie Cinaglia, Tony Cicero and Larner, who had hired the car and searched Lognon’s papers.

  But who was in the second car? Why had they run the risk of picking up a body from the pavement?

  If the man was dead, what had they done with the body?

  And if he wasn’t, where was he being looked after?

  This was one of the rare investigations where they were starting out without any leads. These people had apparently crossed the Atlantic to settle scores of which the French police were entirely ignorant.

  The only reference point for the moment was Pozzo’s bar and restaurant, with its New York ambience weirdly transplanted to within a few metres of the Arc de Triomphe.

  ‘I hope I’ll be able to return the favour one day,’ muttered the Italian as Maigret got up after paying.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, inspector, that I am sure that one day you will allow me to give you a good dinner without insulting me by bringing out your wallet.’

  His broad mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. He saw the two men to the door, taking a malicious delight in giving Lognon a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  ‘Shall I call you a taxi?’

  ‘No need for that.’

  ‘It’s true it’s not raining any more. Well then, good evening, detective chief inspector. I hope this gentleman will get over the loss of his wife.’

  The door finally closed behind them, and the two policemen set off along the pavement. Lognon didn’t say anything. Perhaps, deep down, he enjoyed seeing Maigret being treated like a novice.

  ‘I’ve had their telephone tapped,’ Maigret said, when they were almost at the corner of the street.

  ‘I thought you might.’

  Maigret frowned. If Lognon had suspected as much when he saw him heading to the telephone booth, how much more likely was a man like Pozzo to have done so too?

  ‘In that case he won’t telephone. He’s more likely to send a message.’

  The street was deserted. A garage across the road was closed. Avenue MacMahon was still glistening with rain, and only a taxi cruising for fares and two or three silhouettes over by Grande-Armée were to be seen.

  ‘I think you’d better keep an eye on the place, Lognon. You haven’t slept much recently, so I’ll send someone to relieve you in a moment.’

  ‘I’m on night duty all this week.’

  ‘But you’re meant to have a sleep during the day and you haven’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Still as infuriating as ever! Maigret had to draw on reserves of patience with him that he would never have shown to Janvier or Lucas or any of his inspectors.

  ‘As soon as he gets here, go home to bed.’

  ‘If that’s an order . . .’

  ‘It is. If you have to leave before that, do your best to call headquarters.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Maigret left him on the corner of the street, then walked quickly to Avenue des Ternes, where he went into a bar and asked for a token.

  ‘Janvier? Any news from the phone tap? Fine. Who have you got with you? Torrence? Tell him to jump in a taxi and go to Rue des Acacias. He’ll find Lognon there on a stakeout. Tell him to relieve him. Lognon will fill him in.’

  He took a taxi home and had a small glass of sloe gin and chatted with his wife.

  ‘Madame Lognon telephoned.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘She hasn’t heard from her husband since the start of the afternoon and she’s worried. Apparently he looked under the weather.’

  He shrugged and was about to telephone her . . . Oh come on! Enough was enough. He went to bed, slept and was woken by the smell of coffee. As he got dressed, he couldn’t help thinking of Lognon.

  When he got to Quai des Orfèvres at nine, Lucas had taken over from Janvier, who had gone home to bed.

  ‘No news from Torrence?’

  ‘He telephoned yesterday evening, around ten. Apparently he didn’t find Lognon in Rue des Acacias.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Torrence? Still over there. He just called again to ask if he should carry on watching the place. I told him to ring back in a few minutes.’

  Maigret asked for the number of the Lognons’ apartment.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘Do you have any news of my husband? I haven’t slept all night . . .’

  ‘Isn’t he at home?’

  ‘What? You don’t know where he is?’

  ‘You don’t either?’

  It was absurd. Now he had to reassure her, tell her some story or other.
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  Between Maigret leaving him on the corner of Rue des Acacias and Torrence arriving to replace him, Lognon had disappeared.

  He hadn’t telephoned, hadn’t given any sign of life.

  ‘Admit it, you think, like me, that something has happened to him . . . I always knew it would end like this . . . And here I am, infirm and all on my own up here on this fifth floor, which I can’t even leave!’

  Goodness only knows what he said to calm her down. He felt nauseated by the time he had finished.

  3.

  In which Pozzo imparts his views on various subjects, particularly amateurism

  Maigret was waiting in a furious mood, his hands in his overcoat pockets, stamping his feet and trying to peer over the checked curtains to see what was happening at the back of the restaurant. When he had got to Rue des Acacias he had been surprised not to find Pozzo’s door open. There was a light on inside, though, a single bulb burning at the back of the restaurant.

  He had knocked on the window two or three times and had the impression someone was moving. There was no rain this morning, but it was so cold that it felt as if it was going to freeze, and the sky was the colour of a tin roof. The world seemed a hard, cruel place.

  ‘He’s in there, but I’d be amazed if he opened up for you,’ said the grocer next door. ‘This is when he does his cleaning, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed. He’ll only open around eleven, unless you know how to knock.’

  Maigret tried again, standing on tiptoe so that part of his face could be seen over the curtain. He looked severe this morning. He didn’t like anyone touching his men, even if it was just an inspector from the ninth arrondissement, and his name was Lognon.

  What looked like a bear’s silhouette from a distance finally started moving in the gloom, gradually becoming clearer as it approached the door, and Maigret soon made out Pozzo’s face, centimetres away from his, on the other side of the glass. Only then did the Italian unhook a chain, turn a key and pull the door towards him.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, as if he were expecting Maigret’s visit.

  He was wearing old, saggy trousers, a pale-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of red slippers which made him shuffle along. Seemingly indifferent to Maigret’s presence, he headed to the back of the room, where a solitary light was on, and sat back down in his chair, in front of the remains of a substantial breakfast.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable. Do you want a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A quick drink?’

  ‘No.’

  Without a flicker of surprise, Pozzo gave a nod as if to say, ‘Fine. No hard feelings.’

  He was a little grey in the face, and there were rings under his eyes. Actually, he looked less like a clown now than one of those old comic actors whose faces have become rubbery from all their contortions. Those veterans who have been everywhere and seen everything and acquired that same world-weary look.

  In a corner, brooms and a bucket were up against the wall. Through the hatch he could see the kitchen, from which came a smell of bacon.

  ‘I thought you were married and had children.’

  As if he were acting a scene in slow motion, Pozzo scratched his head, went to get a cigar from a box on a shelf, lit it, then blew the smoke almost directly into Maigret’s face.

  ‘Does your wife live at Quai des Orfèvres?’ he said finally.

  ‘Don’t you live here?’

  ‘I could tell you that’s none of your business. I could even show you the door, and you’d still have no grounds for complaint. Do we understand each other? Yesterday I welcomed you with open arms and tried to give you dinner on the house. Not because I like cops – I mean no offence by that either – but because you are someone in your field, and I respect people who make a name for themselves in their line of work. But fine! You didn’t want to be my guest. That’s your business. Now you show up again this morning and disturb me to ask questions. It’s up to me whether I answer or not.’

  ‘Would you rather I took you to the Police Judiciaire?’

  ‘Now, that’s another story, and I would be curious to see what happened. You’re forgetting that I am still an American citizen. Before I came along, I’d be sure to telephone my consul.’

  He had sat down in front of his empty plate, resting an elbow on the table like someone who feels at home, and was observing Maigret through the smoke of his cigar.

  ‘You see, Monsieur Maigret, you’ve been spoiled. Someone reminded me yesterday evening, after you’d left, that you’d been to America. I found that rather hard to believe. I wonder what your colleagues over there showed you exactly. They must have told you that it’s not the same as here, though. Imagine I’m at home. Do you understand that concept? Suppose someone comes into your apartment and starts asking your wife questions . . . But fine! I’m only saying that so you know who you’re dealing with, and, most of all, so you know that if I listen to you and answer your questions, it’s because I want to. So there’s no point threatening me, like you did last night, with withdrawing my licence. Now to get back to your question: I have no reason to conceal from you the fact that my wife and my children live in the country, because this is no place for them, or that I sleep most nights in a room on the mezzanine, or, last of all, that I do the cleaning round here in the morning.’

  ‘How did you warn Charlie and Larner?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Yesterday, after I left, you told Charlie and his friends about my visit.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You didn’t telephone them.’

  ‘Presumably my telephone is tapped?’

  ‘Where is Charlie?’

  Pozzo sighed and looked over at the photograph of Cinaglia in his boxing days.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Maigret went on, ‘I warned you that this was a serious business. It’s even more so this morning, because the inspector who was with me has disappeared.’

  ‘The cheerful one?’

  ‘When we came out of here I left him at the corner of the street. Half an hour later he wasn’t there any more and he hasn’t been seen since. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘Am I supposed to?’

  Maigret managed to keep calm, but his resolve had hardened too, and he looked Pozzo unwaveringly in the eye.

  ‘I want to know how you warned them. I want to know where they’re hiding. Bill Larner hasn’t been back to the Hôtel Wagram. The other two have gone to ground somewhere, very likely in Paris, and more than likely not far from here, since you were able to get them a message in a few minutes without using your telephone. You’d better come clean, Pozzo. When does the waiter get here?’

  ‘Midday.’

  ‘And the chef?’

  ‘Three. We don’t do lunch.’

  ‘They’ll both be questioned.’

  ‘That’s your business, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  Pozzo, who looked as if he was thinking, slowly got to his feet. With what seemed like a reluctant sigh, he went over to the photograph of the boxer and examined it attentively.

  ‘On your trip to the United States, did you go to Chicago, or Detroit, or St Louis?’

  ‘I travelled all over the Midwest.’

  ‘You probably noticed that those guys aren’t choirboys, eh? Was it before or after Prohibition?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Right. Well, during Prohibition it was maybe five or even ten times tougher.’

  Maigret waited, not knowing what he was driving at.

  ‘I worked for five years as a maître d’ in Chicago before setting up on my own in St Louis. I opened a restaurant like this one, which attracted people of all sorts: politicians, boxers, gangsters and entertainers. Well, Monsieur Maigret, I never fell out with anyone, not even with the lieutenant of police who’d come and have a double whiskey at my bar every now and then. And do you know why?’

  He was drawing it out, like an old ham.

  ‘Becau
se I never got involved in other people’s business. What makes you think I’d change my principles when I got to Paris? Wasn’t your spaghetti good? That’s something I’m ready to discuss with you.’

  ‘But you refuse to tell me where Charlie is?’

  ‘Listen, Maigret . . .’

  He might just as easily have called him Jules. He stopped just short of adopting a paternal tone and putting a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘In Paris, you’re something of a big shot, and people say you almost always come out on top. Do you want me to tell you why that is?’

  ‘What I want is Charlie’s address.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about that. We are dealing with serious matters now. You win because you’re only ever up against amateurs. There aren’t any amateurs over there. Even with the third degree, it is very rare they get someone who is determined to hold his tongue to talk.’

  ‘Charlie is a killer.’

  ‘Is he now? I suppose the FBI told you that, did they? Did the FBI also tell you why, in that case, Charlie hasn’t been sent to the electric chair yet?’

  Maigret had decided to let him keep talking. He stopped listening once or twice and looked around, frowning, as he pursued his train of thought. Charlie and his companions had clearly been told of his and Lognon’s visit to Rue des Acacias. It hadn’t been done by telephone. If someone had left the restaurant to warn them, he or she couldn’t have had to go far. And Lognon would have been suspicious if he had seen the waiter, say, or the cook, or Pozzo himself leave the restaurant.

  ‘That’s the difference, Maigret, the whole difference between amateurs and professionals. Didn’t I tell you just now that I respect people who are someone in their field?’

  ‘Including killers?’

  ‘You told me a story yesterday. It has nothing to do with me, and I’ve already forgotten it. Now you’re back with another instalment, and I’m not interested. You are a good man, probably an honourable one too. You have a fine reputation. I don’t know if those gentlemen from the FBI asked you to deal with this business, but I doubt it. So now I’m telling you: ‘Drop it!’

  ‘Thank you for the advice.’

  ‘It’s sincere. When Charlie boxed in Chicago, he was a featherweight, and it never crossed his mind to go up against a heavyweight.’