Maigret, Lognon and the Gangsters

by Georges Simenon

‘Yes. Quite often.’

  ‘Didn’t he ever go out during the day?’

  ‘Only at the start. Definitely not in the last fortnight.’

  ‘Did he have problems with his eyes?’

  ‘Not in his room. He never wore his sunglasses when he was in here, but he put them on to go to the toilet, which is at the end of the corridor.’

  ‘In other words, he was hiding?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did he seem scared?’

  ‘I got that feeling. When I knocked on the door, I’d hear him start, and I had to say my name before he’d draw the bolt.’

  ‘Was she scared too?’

  ‘It wasn’t the same with her. Until Monday.’

  Her breast was out again, pale and limp.

  ‘Or more exactly, until Tuesday morning. It was on Tuesday that I realized Perkins wasn’t around anymore.’

  ‘Did she tell you that he’d gone on a trip?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me anything. She was a different person. She asked me more than once to go and buy her some bread and meat. This evening . . .’

  ‘Did you post the express letter?’

  ‘Yes. She rang for me. I did all her little errands, and she tipped me well. I used to buy her the newspapers too.’

  ‘Did you take up this evening’s paper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she seem as if she was planning to go out?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t dressed.’

  ‘What about when she gave you the letter?’

  ‘She was wearing a housecoat. Here, this one hanging on the hook.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  ‘At nine. I start my shift at seven in the morning. I shine the shoes on three floors.’

  ‘Thank you, Lucile. If you remember any little detail, call me at Quai des Orfèvres. If I’m not there, give a message to the inspector who answers.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Maigret.’

  ‘You can go to bed.’

  She hovered around him for another moment, then smiled and murmured:

  ‘Goodnight, Monsieur Maigret.’

  ‘Goodnight, Lucile.’

  He went downstairs a few minutes later and found the night porter waiting for him with a bottle of red wine at his elbow.

  ‘Well, what did the landlady tell you?’

  ‘She was very pleasant,’ said Maigret. ‘So was Lucile.’

  ‘Did Lucile flirt with you?’

  A habit of the chambermaid, presumably.

  ‘Do you start your shift every evening at nine?’

  ‘Yes. But I never get into bed before eleven, or even a little later, when the Folies-Bergère close up.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at the man who picked up Madame Perkins this evening?’

  ‘Only through the curtain, but enough of one.’

  ‘Describe him to me.’

  ‘A tall guy, blond hair, with a fedora tilted back on his head. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat: that’s what I noticed most because it’s cold at the moment.’

  ‘Perhaps his car was at the door?’

  ‘No. I heard them walk off down the pavement.’

  Maigret had the feeling this business with the overcoat reminded him of something, but he couldn’t immediately think what.

  ‘Did she seem to be going with him willingly?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did she open the door of the office?’

  ‘She had to give me the key.’

  ‘Did the man stay in the corridor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he seem to be threatening her?’

  ‘He was quietly smoking a cigarette.’

  ‘Did she leave any messages?’

  ‘Nothing. She just handed me her key, saying, “Good evening, Jean.” That was all.’

  ‘Did you notice how she was dressed?’

  ‘She was wearing a darkish coat and some sort of a grey hat.’

  ‘Did she have any luggage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When her husband went out in the evenings, did he ever take a car?’

  ‘I always saw him leave and come back on foot.’

  ‘Did he go far?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He was never gone for much more than an hour.’

  ‘Did they sometimes go out together?’

  ‘At first.’

  ‘Not in the last fortnight?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Did he always have his sunglasses on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Room 47 and the one next to it both gave on to the street. If the wife didn’t go out with the man professing to be called Perkins, did that mean she was watching to make sure the coast was clear? Perhaps they had a signal when he got back telling him whether it was safe to come in?

  The description of Perkins, clothes aside, resembled that of Mascarelli, known as Sloppy Joe.

  Wouldn’t the fact that he had disappeared on Monday night point to him being the unknown stranger who had been dumped out of a car on to the pavement on Rue Fléchier, almost at poor old Lognon’s feet?

  Maigret produced a photograph of Bill Larner from his pocket and showed it to the porter.

  ‘Do you recognize this man?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t come and get Madame Perkins?’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  He showed him the other two photos, of Charlie and Cicero.

  ‘What about these men?’

  ‘Don’t know them. I saw their photos this evening in the newspaper.’

  Maigret had taken a taxi but hadn’t asked it to wait. He started walking towards Faubourg Montmartre, hoping to find a cab, but he hadn’t gone a hundred metres before he had the feeling he was being followed.

  He stopped, and the sound of footsteps some distance behind immediately died away. He set off and the steps rang out again. He span around, and someone over fifty metres away turned around as well.

  He could only make out a vague outline in the shadow of the buildings. He obviously couldn’t start running. He couldn’t call out to the stranger either.

  At Faubourg Montmartre he ignored the passing taxis and went into an all-night bar, where a couple of women were waiting not particularly hopefully at the bar.

  Convinced the stranger was lying in wait for him outside, he ordered a quick drink and made for the telephone booth.

  6.

  Where everyone starts playing rough, and bones get broken

  The third district police station was only a few buildings away from the harshly lit bar Maigret had gone into. If Lognon hadn’t been so keen, it would have taken on the case, since Rue Fléchier, where the body had been dumped, was on the edge of its patch.

  Maigret dialled the station’s number with a worried look on his face.

  ‘Hello? Who’s that? It’s Maigret speaking.’

  ‘Inspector Bonfils, sir.’

  ‘How many men have you got with you, Bonfils?’

  ‘Only two: big Nicolas and Danvers.’

  ‘Listen carefully. I’m in the Bar du Soleil. A guy’s tailing me.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He’s making sure to stay in the shadows and keep enough of a distance so that I can only see his silhouette.’

  ‘Do you want us to take him in for questioning?’

  Maigret almost snapped, like Pozzo and Luigi: ‘He’s not an amateur!’

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘If the guy has come up to the window and seen me go into the phone booth, he’ll have realized what I’m doing and, in that case, he’s probably making himself scarce as we speak. If he hasn’t seen me, he will have still considered the possibility of my telephoning and . . . What’s that?’

  ‘I was saying that people don’t think of everything.’

  ‘Most people don’t, I know. At any event, he is on his guard.’

  Although he couldn’t see Bonfils’ face
, Maigret was sure it bore a mildly ironic expression. What a fuss about simply accosting some unsuspecting guy in the street! It was completely standard. They did it ten times a day.

  ‘Are you staying in the bar, chief?’

  ‘No. There are still people out and about. I’d rather we did it in a deserted street. Rue Grange-Batelière will do. It’s not long and it will be easy to seal it off at both ends. Send two or three uniformed men to Rue Drouot right away and tell them not to show themselves and to have their guns at the ready.’

  ‘Is it as serious as that?’

  ‘Probably. Nicolas and Danvers are to take up position on the steps of Passage Jouffroy. I suppose the gates to the alley are locked now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go over their instructions with them at least twice. In about ten minutes, I’ll leave the bar and make my way slowly towards Rue Grange-Batelière. As I pass the entrance to the alley, your men should stay put. Then, when the man who’s following me gets to them, they jump him. But be careful! He’ll be armed.’

  Knowing he was making the inspector smile, Maigret added:

  ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s a killer. Meanwhile I want you to take a few men and seal off Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre.’

  It was unusual to use such numbers to arrest one man, but even so, at the last minute Maigret had another thought.

  ‘To be doubly sure, put a car in Rue Drouot.’

  ‘Talking of cars, chief . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s probably irrelevant, but I’ll tell you anyway, just in case. Has the man been following you for long?’

  ‘Since Rue Richer.’

  ‘Do you know how he got there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘About half an hour ago, one of our men found a stolen car in Faubourg Montmartre, actually just up from Rue Richer. The description was put out at the start of the afternoon.’

  ‘Where was it stolen?’

  ‘Porte Maillot.’

  ‘Has it been towed?’

  ‘No. It’s still in the same place.’

  ‘Don’t touch it. Now, repeat the instructions.’

  Bonfils repeated them like a model student, even the word ‘killer’, which he stumbled over slightly.

  ‘Will ten minutes be enough?’

  ‘Let’s say fifteen.’

  ‘I’ll leave the bar in fifteen minutes. Everyone armed.’

  He wasn’t armed himself. He headed to the counter, where he drank a hot toddy for his worsening cold, with his back turned to the girls, who were looking optimistically in his direction.

  Now and then a couple passed by outside. It was one in the morning, and most of the taxis were heading to nightclubs in Montmartre. Maigret drank another hot toddy with his eyes fixed on the clock, then buttoned up his overcoat, opened the door and, jamming his hands in his pockets, started walking. He was going back the way he had come, so the man following him should have been up ahead, but he couldn’t see anyone. Had he walked past the bar while he was in the telephone booth?

  He avoided turning round, to have the element of surprise on his side. He kept up a steady pace, even stopping under a streetlight and pretending to look something up in his address book.

  The stolen car was still by the side of the road without a policeman in sight. In all there must have been about ten passers-by in the street, and you could hear the piercing voices of a group who seemed to have been drinking heavily.

  Maigret would only know if he was still being followed when he got to Rue Grange-Batelière, and his chest was a little tight as he turned into it. He had gone fifty metres when he thought he heard footsteps rounding the corner of the street.

  Now it was almost all down to big Nicolas, a giant of a man who liked nothing better than a scrap. Maigret didn’t look round as he passed Passage Jouffroy, but he knew there were two figures on the steps leading from the pavement to the locked alley. In the hotel opposite, lights were still on in two or three windows.

  He carried on walking, smoking his pipe, calculating that the man was about to draw level with the passage. Another dozen steps . . .

  Now, he must be there . . .

  Maigret was expecting the sound of a struggle, of bodies rolling on the cobbles maybe. But what stopped him in his tracks was a gunshot out of the blue.

  He turned and saw a short, stocky man in the middle of the street firing a second time in the direction of the passage, then a third.

  A whistle blew on the corner of Faubourg Montmartre: it must be Bonfils alerting his men.

  Rue Grange-Batelière was guarded at both ends. A body had slumped forwards from the steps – probably Nicolas’, because it looked enormous stretched out on the pavement. Now the other policeman, Danvers, was firing. The men on the corner of Rue Drouot came running, one of them firing far too early and almost hitting Maigret. Then the police car began moving in.

  The killer’s chances of escaping were all but nil, but events took a miraculous turn thanks to an incredible coincidence.

  Just as the policemen were closing in from both sides, a vegetable truck bound for Les Halles turned the corner of Rue Drouot, heading for some unfathomable reason towards Faubourg Montmartre. It was driving fast, making a deafening racket. The driver couldn’t work out what was going on around him. He must have heard the shooting. One of the policemen shouted something at him, probably telling him to stop, but instead the frightened driver accelerated hard and shot down the street.

  The stranger seized his chance and jumped on the back of the lorry, as Danvers blazed away and Nicolas, from where he was lying on the pavement, kept firing too.

  The police still seemed to have the upper hand, given that the squad car was in pursuit, but the car hadn’t reached the corner of Faubourg Montmartre before one of its tyres was hit by a bullet and burst.

  Bonfils, who had jumped out of the way as the truck passed, whistled even louder to alert whoever might be on duty on the corner of the Grands Boulevards. But they hadn’t been briefed. They just saw a truck going past and wondered what they were supposed to do.

  Some passers-by had panicked and started running when they heard the shooting.

  Maigret knew the game was up at that point. Leaving it to Bonfils to give chase, he went over to big Nicolas and bent down to him.

  ‘Wounded?’

  ‘Right in the stomach,’ Nicolas grunted, his face contorted.

  The local station’s van arrived. A stretcher was taken out.

  ‘You know, chief, I’m sure I got him too,’ said Nicolas, as he was lifted into the vehicle.

  He was right. When they shone an electric torch on the cobbles in the middle of the street, where the gangster had been standing during the fight, they found bloodstains.

  In the distance two or three further shots could be heard on the other side of the Grands Boulevards, over towards Les Halles. The man would have plenty of opportunities to get away round there. At this time lorries would be arriving from all parts of the countryside and starting to unload fruit and vegetables in the middle of the street. The whole neighbourhood would be jammed. Hundreds of down-and-outs would be waiting for the chance to earn a bit of money for some manual labour, and drunks would be spilling out of seedy bars.

  Head bowed, Maigret made for the police station and went into Bonfils’ empty office. There was a little stove in the middle of the room, and he automatically started refilling it.

  The station was almost empty. There was only a sergeant and three police officers, who didn’t dare ask him any questions, their attitude one of stunned amazement.

  This wasn’t the usual way of things. It had all happened too quickly; matter-of-fact and brutal, the gunfight had completely unnerved them.

  ‘Have you told the Police Emergency Services?’ Maigret asked the sergeant.

  ‘The minute I found out. They are cordoning off Les Halles.’

  Standard procedure. Not that it would do any good. If the man had managed to esca
pe half a dozen armed men in a deserted street guarded at both ends, he wouldn’t have any trouble vanishing into the milling crowds of Les Halles.

  ‘Don’t you expect anything to come of it?’

  ‘Where have they taken Nicolas?’

  ‘To Hôtel-Dieu.’

  ‘I’m going to Quai des Orfèvres. Keep me informed.’

  He took a taxi and, crossing Les Halles, was stopped twice by roadblocks. A massive round-up was underway. Girls were running in every direction to escape the police. The prison van was parked near one of the halls.

  Maigret had known from the start that Pozzo and Luigi weren’t that far off the mark. Cinaglia and Co. weren’t amateurs or beginners. They almost seemed to be guessing the police’s every move and acting accordingly.

  He slowly climbed the great staircase and went through the inspectors’ room, where Vacher, who didn’t know the latest yet, was making coffee on a portable stove.

  ‘Do you want some, chief?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Did you find the Mado you were looking for?’

  After a glance at Maigret, he didn’t press the point.

  Maigret had taken off his overcoat. Without realizing, he had sat down at his desk with his hat still on and automatically started fiddling with a pencil.

  He dialled his home number distractedly and heard his wife’s voice say:

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘I probably won’t be home tonight.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You seem out of sorts. Is it your cold?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Vacher brought him a steaming cup of coffee, and he went and opened a cupboard where he always kept a bottle of brandy in reserve.

  ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘A drop in my coffee won’t do any harm.’

  ‘Has the Baron telephoned?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Have you got his private number?’

  ‘I’ve got it written down.’

  ‘Call him.’

  That was another thing worrying him. Baron had promised to telephone, and it was unlikely he was still out on the trail at this hour.

  ‘There’s no answer, chief.’

  ‘Lucas?’

  ‘I sent him home to bed, as you told me to.’

  ‘Torrence?’