Maigret

by Georges Simenon

  Maigret knew what this conversation was about. At the other end of the corridor, Philippe had just been called into the chief’s office.

  ‘Did you want to ask me something?’ said Amadieu, getting to his feet. ‘You heard. The chief wants me.’

  ‘Just a couple of questions. First of all, was Cageot aware that Pepito was about to be arrested?’

  ‘I don’t know. Besides, I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know Cageot. I know he’s an informer. I also know that sometimes there’s careless talk in front of informers. Did he come here two or three days before the murder?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, I recall—’

  ‘Another question: Do you know the address of Joseph Audiat, that waiter who was walking down Rue Fontaine and just happened to bump into Philippe?’

  ‘He sleeps at a hotel in Rue Lepic, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Have you checked out Cageot’s alibi?’

  Amadieu feigned a smile.

  ‘Now look, Maigret, I know how to do my job!’

  But there was more to come. On the desk, Maigret had spotted a yellow cardboard folder with the vice squad’s letterhead.

  ‘Is that the report on Fernande Bosquet’s arrest already?’

  Amadieu looked away. He had seemed about to give Maigret a clear explanation, but now his hand was on the door knob and he merely mumbled:

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that Cageot had a girl arrested by the Vice. Where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘May I have a quick look at the file?’

  It was hard to say no. Maigret leaned over, read a few lines and concluded:

  ‘She’s probably having her fingerprints done as we speak.’

  The telephone rang again. Amadieu raised his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘I know. Mustn’t keep the chief waiting.’

  Maigret buttoned up his overcoat and left the office at the same time as Amadieu. Instead of heading back down the stairs, he walked with him to the waiting room with red velvet armchairs.

  ‘Would you ask the chief if he can see me?’

  Amadieu pushed open a padded door. The office boy also vanished inside the head of the Police Judiciaire’s office where Philippe was being grilled. Maigret stood waiting, hat in hand.

  ‘The chief is very busy and requests that you come back this afternoon.’

  Maigret turned and walked back through the knots of inspectors. His expression was a little grim, but he wanted to keep up appearances. He gave a joyless smile.

  He did not go back out into the street, but sneaked off down the narrow corridors and up the winding staircases that led to the top floor of the Palais de Justice. He found his way to the criminal records department and pushed open the door. The women’s session was over. In the grey room around fifty men who had been arrested the previous night were getting undressed, leaving their clothes in little piles on the benches lining the walls.

  Once naked, one by one they went into the next room where staff in black overalls took their fingerprints, sat them down on the anthropometric chair and shouted out their measurements like sales assistants in a department store announcing a sale at the till.

  There was a smell of sweat and filth. Most of the men were bewildered, awkward in their nakedness, allowing themselves to be shoved around from pillar to post and trying to obey instructions, many of them confused because they did not speak French.

  Maigret cordially shook hands with the staff and heard the inevitable platitudes:

  ‘Popping in to say hello?’ ‘How’s life in the country?’ ‘It must be gorgeous in this weather!’

  The neon lamp shed a crude light in the little room where the photographer worked.

  ‘Were there a lot of women, this morning?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Have you got their records?’

  They were lying on a table since they had not yet been filed. The third one was Fernande’s, with the prints of her five fingers, a clumsy signature and a horribly realistic mug shot.

  ‘Did she say anything? Did she cry?’

  ‘No. She was very docile.’

  ‘Do you know where she’s been taken?’

  ‘I don’t know whether they let her go or whether they’ll make her do a few days in Saint-Lazare.’

  Maigret’s gaze roved over the naked men who stood in rows like soldiers. He raised his hand to his hat and said:

  ‘Goodbye!’

  ‘Are you leaving so soon?’

  He was already on the stairs, where there was not a single step that he hadn’t trodden a thousand times. Another staircase, to the left, narrower than the first, led to the laboratory whose every nook and cranny, every vial, he knew.

  He was back on the second floor just after the troop of inspectors had left. Visitors began to take their places outside various doors – people who had been summoned, or who had come to lodge a complaint, or who had something they wanted to report.

  Maigret had spent most of his life in this atmosphere but now he looked around him with a sort of disgust.

  Was Philippe still in the chief’s office? Probably not! By now he would have been arrested and two of his colleagues would be escorting him to the examining magistrate’s chambers!

  What had been said to him, behind the padded door? Had they spoken to him honestly and plainly?

  ‘You have committed a blunder. The evidence against you is such that the public would not understand if you remained at liberty. But we will endeavour to uncover the truth. You will remain one of us.’

  That was probably not what had been said. Maigret thought he could hear the chief, uncomfortable while waiting for Amadieu, mutter between coughs:

  ‘Inspector, I am extremely displeased with you. It was easier for you to get into the police than for anyone else thanks to your uncle. Have you shown yourself worthy of that favour?’

  And Amadieu would go further:

  ‘As of now, you are in the hands of the examining magistrate. With the best will in the world, there is nothing we can do for you.’

  And yet this Amadieu, with his long pale face and his brown moustache, which he was always tapering, was not a bad man. He had a wife and three children, including a daughter he wanted to provide with a dowry. He had always believed that everyone around him was scheming, that they all wanted his job and were constantly seeking to compromise him.

  As for the chief, in two years’ time he would reach retirement age and until then it was best to avoid trouble.

  This was a standard gangland killing, in other words, a run-of-the-mill case. Were they going to risk complications by protecting a rookie inspector who had gone astray and was Maigret’s nephew to boot?

  Cageot was a crook and everyone knew it. He himself didn’t even hide it. He cashed in on all sides. And when he sold someone to the police, it was because that person was no longer useful to him.

  Nevertheless, Cageot was a dangerous criminal. He had friends, connections. And above all, he was good at protecting himself. They would get him one day, for sure. They had him in their sights. They had checked his alibi and the investigation would follow the proper course.

  But there was no need for overzealousness! And there was certainly no need for Maigret, with his habit of putting his foot in it.

  Maigret had reached the little paved courtyard where a morose crowd waited outside the juvenile court. Despite the sunshine, there was a chill in the air and in the shade there was still a dusting of frost between the flagstones.

  ‘That idiot Philippe!’ grumbled Maigret almost sick with revulsion.

  For he was well aware that he was going round and round like a circus horse. There was no point waiting for a brainwave; in police matters, brainwaves were of no use. Nor was it a matter of discovering a phenomenal lead, or a clue that had eluded everyone else.

  It was simpler and more brutal. Cageot had killed Pepito, or
had him killed. The challenge was to get Cageot finally to admit that this was the truth.

  Now Maigret was strolling along the riverbank, close to the laundry boat. He did not have the power to summon Cageot to an office and lock him in for a few hours, or to repeat the same question a hundred times, roughing him up if necessary to make him crack.

  Nor could he summon the café owner, the waiter or the men who played belote every night a hundred metres from the Floria.

  He had barely started using Fernande when she had literally been snatched away from him.

  He reached the Chope du Pont-Neuf, pushed open the glazed door and went over to shake hands with Lucas, who was sitting at the bar.

  ‘How are things, chief?’

  ‘Not good!’ replied Maigret.

  ‘It’s tough, isn’t it?’

  It wasn’t tough. It was a hopelessly tragic situation.

  ‘I’m getting old! Maybe it’s the effect of rural life.’

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘I’ll have a Pernod!’

  He said that almost defiantly. He remembered that he had promised to write to his wife, but he hadn’t felt up to it.

  ‘Is there some way I can help?’

  Lucas was a curious character, always badly dressed, puny into the bargain, who had neither wife nor family. Maigret let his gaze rove around the place, which was beginning to fill up, and he had to crease his eyes when he turned to the window where the sun was streaming in.

  ‘Have you worked with Philippe?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘Was he very disagreeable?’

  ‘There are people who resent him because he doesn’t say much. He’s shy, you know. Have they banged him up?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Lucas was concerned to see Maigret so tight-lipped.

  ‘What are you going to do, chief?’

  ‘I know I can trust you, so I’ll tell you. I’m going to do everything that’s necessary. Do you understand? It’s best that someone knows, so if anything were to happen—’

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and tapped a coin on the bar to attract the waiter’s attention.

  ‘Leave it! It’s my round,’ said Lucas.

  ‘If you insist. I’ll buy a round when this is over. Goodbye, Lucas.’

  ‘Goodbye, chief.’

  Lucas’ hand lingered for a moment in Maigret’s rough paw.

  ‘All the same, you will take care, won’t you?’

  And Maigret, on his feet, boomed:

  ‘I cannot stand cretins!’

  He walked off alone. He had plenty of time, since he had no idea where he was going.

  5.

  As Maigret pushed open the door of the Tabac Fontaine, at around 1.30, the owner, who had just risen, was slowly making his way down a spiral staircase into the back of the café. Although not as tall as Maigret, he was just as broad and burly. As he crossed the room, he exuded a whiff of the bathroom – his hair reeked of cologne and there were traces of talcum powder behind his ears. He wore neither a jacket nor a collar. His lightly starched shirt was snowy white, fastened by a swivel stud.

  He went behind the bar, shoving the waiter roughly aside, grabbed a bottle of white wine and a glass, diluted the wine with mineral water, threw back his head and gargled.

  At that hour, there were just a few passing customers snatching a hurried coffee. Maigret went and sat by the window, but the owner, oblivious of him, tied on a blue apron and turned to a blonde girl seated at the till of the cigarette counter.

  He said no more to her than to the waiter, opened the cash register, looked at a notebook and stretched, now fully awake. His day was beginning, and the first thing he noticed on inspecting his realm was Maigret staring placidly at him.

  They had never met, but the owner still knitted his thick, black eyebrows. He appeared to be racking his brains. Unable to place Maigret, he scowled. And yet he could never have foreseen that this placid customer was going to sit there for twelve full hours!

  Maigret’s first task was to go over to the till and say to the girl:

  ‘Have you got a telephone token?’

  The booth was in a corner of the café. It only had a frosted glass door, and Maigret, sensing the owner had his eye on him, jiggled the handset making a series of loud clicks. Meanwhile, using the pen-knife he was holding in his other hand, he cut the cable at the point where it went under the floor, so that no one would notice that it had been severed.

  ‘Hello! … Hello! …’ he yelled.

  He emerged fuming.

  ‘Is your telephone out of order?’

  The owner glanced over at the cashier, who looked surprised.

  ‘It was working a few minutes ago. Lucien telephoned for some croissants. Didn’t you, Lucien?’

  ‘Barely a quarter of an hour ago,’ confirmed the waiter.

  The owner wasn’t suspicious yet, but he was still watching Maigret covertly. He went into the booth and tried to make a call, persisting for a good ten minutes without noticing the severed cable.

  Impassive, Maigret had returned to his table and ordered a beer. He was stocking up on patience. He knew that he was going to have to sit on that same chair for hours, in front of that fake mahogany pedestal table, confronted with the sight of the pewter bar and the glazed booth where the girl sold tobacco and cigarettes.

  As he came out of the telephone booth, the owner kicked the door shut, walked over to the doorway and sniffed the air of the street for a moment. He stood very close to Maigret, who was staring fixedly at him. Finally becoming aware of that penetrating gaze, he spun round.

  Maigret didn’t move a muscle. He was still wearing his overcoat and hat, as if about to leave.

  ‘Lucien! Run next door and telephone for someone to come and repair the phone.’

  The waiter hurried out, a dirty napkin over his arm, and the owner himself served two builders who came in, their faces clown-like under an almost even layer of plaster dust.

  An atmosphere of doubt hung in the air for perhaps another ten minutes. When Lucien announced that the engineer would not be coming until the next day, the owner turned to Maigret again and muttered under his breath:

  ‘Bastard!’

  He could have meant the tardy engineer, but the insult was chiefly addressed to the customer in whom he finally recognized a policeman.

  It was 2.30 and this was the prologue to a long, drawn-out performance, which eluded everybody present. The owner’s name was Louis. Customers who knew him came and shook his hand, exchanged a few words with him. Louis himself rarely served. Most of the time, he stayed in the background, behind the bar, between the waiter and the girl on the cigarette counter.

  And he watched Maigret over their heads. He made no bones about it, and Maigret watched him with equal brazenness. The situation could have been comical, for they were both big, broad and heavy, and they were trying to outstare each other.

  Neither was a fool, either. Louis knew exactly what he was doing when, from time to time, he glanced at the glass door, afraid of seeing a certain person walk in.

  At that hour, Rue Fontaine was bustling with everyday activities like any other Paris street. Opposite the bar there was an Italian grocery where the local housewives came to do their shopping.

  ‘Waiter! A calvados.’

  The lethargic blonde cashier stared at Maigret with mounting curiosity. Meanwhile, the waiter had intuited that something was amiss, although he didn’t know what exactly, and he gave the owner an occasional wink.

  It was just after three when a big, light-coloured limousine pulled up outside. A tall, youngish, dark-haired man with a scar on his left cheek alighted and entered the café, extending his hand over the bar.

  ‘Hello, Louis.’

  ‘Hello, Eugène.’

  Maigret had a direct view of Louis, and he could see the newcomer’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘A mint-soda, Lucien. And make it quick.’

  H
e was one of the belote players, probably the owner of a brothel in Béziers that Fernande had mentioned. He wore a silk shirt and his clothes were well tailored. He too smelled fragrant.

  ‘Have you seen the—’

  He broke off mid-sentence. Louis had signalled to him that someone was eavesdropping and Eugène looked up at Maigret’s reflection.

  ‘Hmm! Where’s that iced soda, Lucien?’

  He took a cigarette from a monogrammed case, and lit it from his lighter.

  ‘Nice weather, isn’t it!’ said the owner, with irony, still eyeing Maigret.

  ‘Nice weather indeed. But there’s a funny smell in here.’

  ‘What smell?’

  ‘Something fishy.’

  They both roared with laughter, while Maigret puffed gently on his pipe.

  ‘See you later?’ queried Eugène, extending his hand once again.

  He wanted to know if they’d be meeting up as usual.

  ‘See you later.’

  This conversation galvanized Louis, who grabbed a dirty cloth and, with a grin, came over to Maigret.

  ‘May I?’

  He wiped the table so clumsily that he knocked over the glass, spilling the contents on to Maigret’s trousers.

  ‘Lucien! Bring the gentleman another glass.’

  And, by way of apology:

  ‘No extra charge!’

  Maigret gave a vague smile in return.

  By five o’clock the street lamps were lit, but it was still light enough outside to identify the customers as they crossed the road and reached for the door handle.

  When Joseph Audiat walked in, Louis and Maigret looked at each other, as of one accord, and from that moment it was almost as if they had been exchanging protracted secrets. There was no need to mention the Floria, or Pepito, or Cageot.

  Maigret knew, and Louis knew that he knew.

  ‘Evening, Louis!’

  Audiat was a short man, dressed in black from head to foot, with a slightly crooked nose and eyes that darted everywhere. He walked up to the bar and held his hand out to the blonde cashier, saying:

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  Then to Lucien:

  ‘A Pernod, young man.’