Maigret's Failure

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Have you heard of me since school?’

  Ferdinand Fumal’s voice now contained a vague threat.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know “United Butchers”?’

  ‘By name.’

  It was a meat wholesaler with shops pretty much everywhere – there was one on Boulevard Voltaire, not far from Maigret’s apartment. Small butchers had protested in vain against its expansion.

  ‘That’s me. Have you heard of “Bargain Meats”?’

  Vaguely. Another ‘chain’ in more working-class areas and the suburbs.

  ‘That’s me too,’ Fumal said, with a defiant look. ‘Do you know how many millions those two businesses are worth?’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘I am in charge of “Northern Butchers” too – their head office is in Lille – and “Associated Butchers”, whose offices are in Rue Rambuteau.’

  Sizing up the bulk of the man wedged in his chair, Maigret almost muttered, ‘That’s a lot of meat.’ But he didn’t. He sensed this would prove to be a much more tiresome business than Mrs Britt’s disappearance. He already loathed Fumal, and not just for his father’s sake. The man was too sure of himself, contemptuously self-confident in a way that was insulting to ordinary people.

  Yet you could also sense a certain anxiety under this exterior, perhaps even panic.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?’

  ‘No.’

  That was how you drove people like that insane: meet their every move with absolute calm, the force of inertia. There wasn’t a flicker of curiosity or interest in Maigret’s gaze, and his visitor was starting to get angry.

  ‘Do you know I’ve got enough clout to get a senior policeman transferred?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Even someone who thinks he’s a big shot.’

  ‘I’m still listening, Monsieur Fumal.’

  ‘I’m here as a friend, mind you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘From the start, your attitude …’

  ‘Has been polite, Monsieur Fumal.’

  ‘Fine! Up to you. I asked to see you because I thought that, in light of our old friendship …’

  They had never been friends, never played together. Besides, Ferdinand Fumal had never played with anyone, spending all his breaks alone in a corner.

  ‘May I point out that I have a lot of work waiting for me?’

  ‘I’m busier than you and I’ve still put myself out. I could have seen you in one of my offices …’

  What was the point of arguing? It was true that this man knew the minister and had done him favours, as he probably had other politicians. This could end in trouble.

  ‘Do you need the police?’

  ‘Unofficially.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s understood that what I’m about to tell you is strictly between us.’

  ‘Unless you’ve committed a crime …’

  ‘I don’t like jokes.’

  His patience almost entirely exhausted, Maigret stood up and, fighting the urge to throw his visitor out, went and leaned on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Someone wants to kill me.’

  ‘I can see why,’ Maigret almost said, but forced himself to remain impassive.

  ‘For about a week I’ve been getting anonymous letters, which I barely took any notice of at first. If you’re someone of my standing, you’ve got to expect you’ll arouse jealousy in other people, sometimes even hatred.’

  ‘Do you have the letters with you?’

  Fumal took a wallet as bulging as his father’s out of his pocket.

  ‘Here’s the first one. I threw away the envelope because I didn’t know what was in it.’

  Maigret took the letter and read in pencil:

  You’re dead.

  Without smiling, he put the piece of paper on his desk.

  ‘What do the others say?’

  ‘This is the second, which came the next day. I kept the envelope, which, as you’ll see, has the postmark of a post office near the Opéra.’

  This time the note, which was also written in pencil, said in block capitals:

  I’ll have your guts.

  There were others. Clutching the sheaf in his hand, Fumal handed them over one by one after first taking them out of their envelopes himself.

  ‘I can’t make out the postmark on this one.’

  Count the days, bastard.

  ‘I imagine you’ve no idea who sent them?’

  ‘Wait. There’s seven in all; the last one came this morning. One was posted on Boulevard Beaumarchais, another at the main post office on Rue du Louvre, and lastly one on Avenue des Ternes.’

  The contents varied to a degree.

  You haven’t got long.

  Make a will.

  Scum.

  Then the last one repeated the first:

  You’re dead.

  ‘Are you leaving this correspondence in my care?’

  Maigret had chosen the word ‘correspondence’ intentionally, slightly ironically.

  ‘If it’ll help you find out who sent them.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s a practical joke?’

  ‘Not many practical jokers in my world. Whatever you might think, Maigret, I’m not a person who scares easily. You don’t get to where I am without making enemies, you see, and I’ve always despised mine.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Because it’s my right as a citizen to be protected. I don’t want to be shot down without even knowing where the bullet’s coming from. I talked it over with the minister, and he said …’

  ‘I know. So, in a nutshell, you’d like us to provide you with some discreet security?’

  ‘It seems appropriate.’

  ‘And you’d probably also like us to find out who wrote these anonymous notes?’

  ‘If you can.’

  ‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’

  ‘No, not in particular. Except …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mind you, I’m not accusing him. He’s a weak man and, while he might be capable of threats, he wouldn’t dare carry them out.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Someone called Gaillardin, Roger Gaillardin, from “Affordable Butchers”.’

  ‘Has he got any reason to hate you?’

  ‘I’ve ruined him.’

  ‘Intentionally?’

  ‘Yes. After telling him I was going to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he got in my way. His business is being wound up now, and I hope I’ll get him sent to prison too, because on top of the bankruptcy there’s been some trouble with cheques.’

  ‘Do you have his address?’

  ‘26, Rue François Premier.’

  ‘Is he a butcher?’

  ‘Not by profession. He’s a money man. He handles other people’s money. I handle my own. That’s the whole difference between us.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Yes. But it’s not his wife that matters. His mistress is the one. He lives with her.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘We’ve often gone out together, the three of us.’

  ‘Are you married, Monsieur Fumal?’

  ‘Have been for twenty-five years.’

  ‘Did your wife come with you on these evenings out?’

  ‘My wife hasn’t been out for a long time.’

  ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘You could say that. At any rate she thinks so.’

  ‘I’m going to take some notes.’

  Maigret sat down, grabbed a folder and some paper.

  ‘Your address?’

  ‘I live in a private townhouse, which I own, at 58a, Boulevard de Courcelles, opposite Parc Monceau.’

  ‘Nice part of town.’

  ‘Yes. I have offices on Rue Rambuteau, near Les Halles, and also at La Villette.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Not to mention ones in Lille and elsewhere.’

&
nbsp; ‘I imagine you have a large domestic staff.’

  ‘Five servants at Boulevard de Courcelles.’

  ‘Chauffeur?’

  ‘I’ve never learned to drive.’

  ‘Secretary?’

  ‘I have a private secretary.’

  ‘At Boulevard de Courcelles?’

  ‘She has her bedroom and office there, but she comes with me when I go round the various branches.’

  ‘Young?’

  ‘I don’t know. In her thirties, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you sleeping with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you sleeping with?’

  Fumal gave a contemptuous smile.

  ‘I thought you’d ask me that. Well, yes, I do have a mistress. I’ve had several in fact. At the moment, it’s someone called Martine Gilloux, whom I have set up in an apartment on Rue de l’Étoile.’

  ‘Just around the corner.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘In a nightclub, a year ago. She’s a quiet sort and hardly ever goes out.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she has any reason to hate you?’

  ‘I don’t either.’

  ‘Does she have a lover?’

  ‘If she has, it’s news to me,’ he snapped. ‘Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Yes. Is your wife jealous?’

  ‘I suppose, with what I gather is your natural tact, you’re going to ask her that yourself?’

  ‘What sort of family is she from?’

  ‘She’s a butcher’s daughter.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘What’s perfect?’

  ‘Nothing. I’d like to get a better idea of the people close to you. Do you go through the post yourself?’

  ‘I do with the post that comes to Boulevard de Courcelles.’

  ‘Is that personal correspondence?’

  ‘More or less. Everything else is sent to Rue Rambuteau and La Villette, where my office staff deals with it.’

  ‘Your secretary doesn’t …’

  ‘She opens the envelopes and passes them to me.’

  ‘Did you show her these notes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t show your wife either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your mistress?’

  ‘Her neither. Are we finished?’

  ‘I imagine I have your permission to go to Boulevard de Courcelles? What shall I say?’

  ‘That I’ve lodged a complaint about some papers that have gone missing.’

  ‘Can I go to your other offices as well?’

  ‘Tell them the same.’

  ‘And Rue de l’Étoile?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’m going to have your home guarded, starting this afternoon, but keeping track of your movements around Paris seems harder. I imagine you get about in a limousine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you armed?’

  ‘I don’t carry a gun on me but I’ve got a revolver in my bedside table.’

  ‘Do you and your wife sleep in separate rooms?’

  ‘Have done for ten years.’

  Maigret had got to his feet and was looking at the door, then at his watch. Fumal laboriously stood up in his turn. He cast around for something to say but could only come up with:

  ‘I didn’t expect this attitude from you.’

  ‘Have I been rude?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, but …’

  ‘I will take care of this matter, Monsieur Fumal. I hope nothing untoward happens to you.’

  In the corridor, the meat tycoon retorted furiously:

  ‘I hope not too. For your sake!’

  Whereupon Maigret shut the door firmly.

  2. The Wary Secretary and the Deliberately Obtuse Wife

  Lucas came in holding some papers, trailing a smell of medicine, and Maigret, who hadn’t gone back to his desk yet, gruffly asked:

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Who, chief?’

  ‘The guy who just went out.’

  ‘We almost bumped into each other but I didn’t really get a look at him.’

  ‘That was a mistake. Unless I’m completely off the mark, he’s going to cause us more trouble than the Englishwoman.’

  Maigret had used a stronger word than ‘trouble’. Besides irritation, he felt anxious now, weighed down. It worried him to see a kid whom he had always loathed and whose father had harmed his suddenly show up again from the distant past like this.

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Lucas, spreading his papers on the desk.

  ‘Fumal.’

  ‘As in meat?’

  ‘Does that ring a bell?’

  ‘My brother-in-law worked as an assistant accountant in one of his offices for a couple of years.’

  ‘What does your brother-in-law think of him?’

  ‘He didn’t stay there for long.’

  ‘Will you deal with it?’

  Maigret pushed the threatening letters towards Lucas.

  ‘Take them up to Moers first, just in case.’

  It was rare that the lab technicians couldn’t glean something from a document. Moers knew every make of paper, every type of ink and probably, when it came to it, every kind of pencil too. There was always a chance that they might also find some fingerprints that were already on file.

  ‘How do we go about protecting him?’ asked Lucas, after reading the threats.

  ‘No idea. Start by sending someone to Boulevard de Courcelles. Vacher, say.’

  ‘In the house or on the street?’

  Maigret didn’t answer immediately.

  The rain had just stopped, but it wasn’t an improvement. A cold, damp wind had got up which was forcing pedestrians to hold on to their hats and plastering their clothes against their bodies. A group walking across Pont Saint-Michel were leaning backwards as if they were being shoved in the chest.

  ‘Outside. Get him to take someone with him to ask around the neighbourhood. You go and take a look at the offices on Rue Rambuteau and in La Villette.’

  ‘Do you think the threats are genuine?’

  ‘Fumal’s is, at any rate. If we don’t do what he wants, he’ll set all his politician friends on us.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  It was true. What did the meat wholesaler want exactly? What was the point of his visit?

  ‘Are you going home for lunch?’

  It was after twelve. For the past week, Maigret had been having lunch every other day in Place Dauphine, not for work reasons but because his wife had a dentist’s appointment at 11.30. He didn’t like eating on his own.

  Lucas went with him. There were a few inspectors at the bar, as usual, and the two men went into the little back room, where a proper coal-fired stove of the sort Maigret loved had pride of place.

  ‘How about a veal ragout?’ suggested the restaurant owner.

  ‘Perfect for me.’

  A woman on the steps of the Palais de Justice was desperately trying to smooth down her dress, which a gust of wind had turned inside out like an umbrella.

  After a moment, as the hors-d’oeuvres were being served, Maigret repeated, as if to himself, ‘I don’t understand …’

  Maniacs or people who were mentally disturbed sometimes wrote letters like the ones Fumal had received. Occasionally they even carried out their threats. They were humble folk, generally people who had nursed a grievance for a long time without daring to give any hint of it.

  A man like Fumal must have wronged hundreds of individuals. His arrogance would have hurt others.

  What Maigret didn’t understand was the nature of his visit, the aggressive way he had behaved.

  Had Maigret started it? Had he been wrong to show he still felt a grudge that dated back to the village of Saint-Fiacre?
>
  ‘Hasn’t the Yard rung you today, chief?’

  ‘Not yet. They will.’

  A veal ragout of a creaminess even Madame Maigret couldn’t have improved on was brought to the table. Moments later the restaurant owner appeared to say that Maigret was wanted on the telephone. Only people at headquarters knew where to find him.

  ‘Yes. Go ahead … Janin? What does she want? Ask her to wait a moment … You know, about a quarter of an hour … Yes … In the waiting room, that’s better …’

  When he went back to his seat, he told Lucas:

  ‘His secretary is asking to talk to me. She’s at headquarters.’

  ‘Did she know her boss was meant to pay you a visit?’

  Maigret shrugged and started eating. He didn’t have any cheese or fruit, just a black coffee, which he drank boiling hot as he filled his pipe.

  ‘Don’t rush. Do what I told you to and keep me posted.’

  He was definitely starting a cold himself. Under the archway of the Police Judiciaire the wind whipped off his hat, and the policeman on duty only just caught it.

  ‘Thanks, my friend.’

  On the first floor, he looked curiously through the windows of the waiting room at a young woman in her thirties. Blonde, with regular features, she was waiting with both hands propped on her handbag, showing no sign of impatience.

  ‘Did you want to talk to me?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’

  ‘Follow me … Take a seat …’

  He took off his overcoat and hat and sat down in his chair, then looked at her again. Without waiting to be asked anything, she began confidently, her voice settling almost immediately into its natural tone:

  ‘My name is Louise Bourges and I am Monsieur Fumal’s personal secretary.’

  ‘Have you worked for him for a long time?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘I understand that you live on Boulevard de Courcelles, in your employer’s townhouse?’

  ‘Generally speaking, yes. But I still have a little apartment on Quai Voltaire.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Monsieur Fumal will have been to see you this morning.’

  ‘Did he tell you about it?’

  ‘No. I heard him on the telephone to the minister of the interior.’

  ‘While you were in the room?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known otherwise; I don’t listen at doors.’

  ‘Is that visit what you want to talk to me about?’

  She nodded but took her time answering, searching for the right words.