Maigret's Revolver

by Georges Simenon

  What had the young man done that afternoon? Why hadn’t he left at once? One might reasonably suppose it was for lack of money.

  To get hold of some cash by the only method open to him he needed to wait for darkness to fall.

  As if by chance, he had attacked the businessman from Clermont-Ferrand in a street near Gare du Nord, shortly before a train left for Calais.

  ‘By the way, I forgot to tell you, they telephoned about the wallet. It was found in the street.’

  ‘Which street?’

  ‘Rue de Dunkerque.’

  Still near the station!

  ‘Without the cash, naturally.’

  ‘Before you go, can you put a call through to the passport office? Ask them if they have ever issued a passport in the name of Alain Lagrange.’

  While he waited, he went over to stand by the window. It was not yet light, just that cold grey hour before sunrise. In a kind of dusty penumbra, the Seine was flowing darkly, and a boatman was washing down the deck of his vessel moored to the embankment. A tug was sliding downstream silently, going somewhere to collect a string of barges.

  ‘He applied for a passport eleven months ago, chief. He wanted to go to Austria.’

  ‘So his passport’s still valid. You don’t need a visa for England. You didn’t find one when you looked through his things?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Spare clothes?’

  ‘He’s probably only got one presentable suit, and he’s wearing that. There’s another in his wardrobe, but it’s threadbare. And all the socks we found were in holes.’

  ‘Get off to bed now.’

  ‘Sure you don’t need me any more?’

  ‘Quite sure. Anyway, there are two inspectors in the office.’

  Maigret did not realize that he was dropping off to sleep himself in his armchair. When he suddenly opened his eyes, because the tug-boat was now coming back upstream, and hooting before going under the bridge with its seven barges, the dawn sky was pink and rays of sunlight were touching the rooftops. He looked at his watch and picked up the telephone.

  ‘Get me the harbour police in Calais.’

  It took a while. The harbour police weren’t answering. The inspector who finally came to the phone was out of breath.

  ‘This is Maigret from the Police Judiciaire in Paris.’

  ‘Yes, I know what it’s about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve just finished checking the passports. The ferry’s still in harbour. My colleagues are still there.’

  Maigret could hear the ship’s sirens sounding as if it was about to leave.

  ‘And young Lagrange?’

  ‘Didn’t find him. Nobody matching his description. There were only a handful of passengers. It was easy to check.’

  ‘Have you still got the list of people who went over yesterday?’

  ‘I’ll go and get it. It’s in the next office, if you can hang on.’

  When he came back it was to announce:

  ‘I can’t see any Lagrange in the people leaving yesterday either.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Lagrange now. Have you got someone called Jeanne Debul?’

  ‘Debul? Debul . . . D . . . D . . . Let’s see. Daumas, Dazergues, Debul, Jeanne Louise Clémentine, age 49, resident in Neuilly-sur-Seine, 7a, Boulevard—’

  ‘Yes, I know. What address did she give as her destination?’

  ‘London, the Savoy Hotel.’

  ‘Thank you. And you’re sure that Lagrange—’

  ‘Yes, you can be quite sure of that, sir.’

  Maigret felt overheated, perhaps because he had not slept. He was in a bad mood, and as if in revenge he reached out for the cognac bottle. Then he suddenly grabbed the phone again, and snapped:

  ‘Get me Le Bourget!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m asking you to put me through to Le Bourget airport!’

  He sounded irritable. The switchboard operator hurried, pulling a face.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, at the Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘Inspector Mathieu speaking.’

  ‘Are there any night flights to London?’

  ‘There’s one at 10 p.m. another after midnight at 00.45, and the first morning plane went off a few minutes ago. I can still hear it making its ascent.’

  ‘Can you get hold of the passenger list?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The midnight one, the 00.45.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  It was unusual for Maigret to be so brusque.

  ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look for a Lagrange.’

  ‘Yes, here we are . . . Lagrange, Alain François Marie—’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘That’s all?’

  But Maigret had already hung up. Because of the wretched Gare du Nord, on which he had been fixated, he hadn’t thought of air travel, so by now Alain Lagrange, with his loaded automatic, had been in London for a while.

  His hand hovered over the desk, before picking up the receiver again.

  ‘The Savoy Hotel, London.’

  He was put through almost at once.

  ‘This is the Savoy Hotel. Reception desk.’

  He was tired of repeating his request, giving his name and title.

  ‘Can you tell me if a certain Jeanne Debul checked in to your hotel last night?’

  It took less time than with the police. The reception clerk had an up-to-date list of all the guests to hand.

  ‘Yes, sir. Room 605. Do you wish to speak to her?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘No. But can you check whether you also have an Alain Lagrange staying?’

  It took hardly any longer.

  ‘No one of that name, sir.’

  ‘I presume you ask people for their passports when they arrive?’

  ‘Yes, of course, we follow the regulations.’

  ‘So Alain Lagrange couldn’t have checked in under a false identity?’

  ‘Not unless he’s got a false passport. The police come and examine them every night, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He had one more call to make, one he particularly dreaded, since he would have to rely on his halting schoolboy English.

  ‘Get me Scotland Yard.’

  It would have been a miracle if his friend Inspector Pyke, whom he had welcomed to France in the past, was at his desk at this hour. He had to make do with an anonymous official, who took a long time to understand who he was, and who spoke in a nasal voice.

  ‘A Frenchwoman, Jeanne Debul, age 49, is staying at the Savoy Hotel, room 605 . . . I would be obliged if for the next few hours you could keep a discreet watch on her.’

  His distant colleague had the infuriating habit of repeating Maigret’s last words, but with the right accent, as if correcting him.

  ‘It’s possible that a young man may try to see her or to waylay her. I’ll give you his description.’

  Once he had done so, he added:

  ‘He’s armed. With a Smith & Wesson special. Which means you can arrest him. I’ll wire you his photograph in a few minutes.’

  But the Englishman was not ready to accept this, and Maigret had to give more details and repeat the same thing three or four times.

  ‘What is it exactly you want us to do?’

  Faced with such obstinacy, Maigret regretted having taken the precaution of phoning the Yard, and felt like saying: ‘Nothing at all!’

  He was damp with sweat.

  ‘I’ll be over there myself as soon as possible,’ he said finally.

  ‘You mean you’re coming to Scotland Yard?’

  ‘I’m coming to London, yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, I don’t have the times of the flights in front of me.’

  ‘You’re taking the plane?’

  He hung up in exasperation, cursing this civil servant whom he didn’t know, and who was
no doubt a conscientious fellow. What would Lucas have replied to an inspector from Scotland Yard telephoning at six in the morning with the same kind of story, conveyed in poor French?

  ‘Me again. Get me Le Bourget again, please.’

  There was a flight at 8.15. That gave him time to go back to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, change, shave, and even to grab a bite of breakfast. Madame Maigret was careful not to question him.

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back,’ he muttered grumpily, vaguely intending to irritate her, so as to pass on his anxiety to someone else. ‘I’m going to London.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Can you get my small suitcase packed with a change of clothes and my shaving things? There should be a few English pounds still in the drawer.’

  The telephone rang. He was just tying his tie.

  ‘Maigret? Rateau here.’

  It was the examining magistrate, of course, who had spent the night in his comfortable bed, who was no doubt delighted to be woken by bright sunlight and who, as he tucked into his croissants, was asking for the latest news.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I don’t have time to talk now, I’m getting a plane to London in thirty-five minutes.’

  ‘To London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what is it that you’ve found to—?’

  ‘Excuse me, I have to go, the plane won’t wait.’

  And he was in such a state that he added:

  ‘I’ll send you a postcard!’

  Upon which, needless to say, the phone was slammed down at the other end.

  6.

  In which Maigret goes so far as to wear a carnation in his buttonhole, but has very little success

  They ran into cloud cover as they approached the French coast and flew up above it. Through a break in the clouds a little later, Maigret caught a lucky glimpse of the sea, sparkling as if covered in silvery scales, and of fishing boats trailing a wake of foam.

  His neighbour leaned across amicably to point out the white cliffs, explaining:

  ‘That’s Dover . . . Douvres.’

  He thanked the man with a smile, and soon there was only a thin haze between the aeroplane and the earth beneath. Occasionally, they came to a large luminous cloud and emerged from it to see green fields down below, dotted with miniature cows.

  Finally, the horizon tilted and Croydon airport came into view. And so, once they had landed, did Mr Pyke. Because Mr Pyke was waiting to greet his French colleague. Not on the airfield itself, as he would no doubt have been entitled to do, and not standing apart from the crowd either, but with all the other people behind the barriers separating passengers from their waiting friends and relations.

  He did not make conspicuous signs, or wave a handkerchief. When Maigret looked in his direction, he simply gave a little nod of the head, as he probably did every morning to greet colleagues at the office.

  They had not seen each other for some time, and it was twelve or thirteen years since Maigret had set foot in England.

  He followed the queue, suitcase in hand, entered the building for customs and immigration, and Mr Pyke was still there, behind a glass partition, wearing his dark-grey, rather too tight-fitting suit and his black trilby, and sporting a carnation in his buttonhole.

  The Englishman could easily have entered the building and told the passport control officer: ‘This is a VIP, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, who is visiting us . . .’

  That was what Maigret would have done for him at Le Bourget. But he took no offence, understanding that it was, on the contrary, an example of his colleague’s tact. Now he felt a little ashamed at his own irritation that morning towards the official at the Yard. Because if Pyke was here, it meant that the man he had spoken to had not done his job badly, indeed he had shown initiative. It was only half past ten. To reach Croydon in time, Pyke must have left London almost as soon as he walked into his office.

  Maigret emerged through the doors. A dry, horny hand was thrust towards him.

  ‘Comment allez-vous?’

  And Pyke continued, still in French – a sacrifice for him, since he spoke it with difficulty and was ashamed of making mistakes.

  ‘I hope you – er – enjoy? How do you say that? Yes, enjoy this beautiful day.’

  In fact, it was the first time Maigret had visited England in summer and he wondered whether he had ever seen London bathed in sunlight.

  ‘I thought you might prefer to travel by car, rather than in the airport bus.’

  He did not broach the subject of the investigation, or even refer to it, and that too was an indication of his personal kind of tact. They took their seats in a Bentley belonging to the Yard, driven by a uniformed chauffeur who observed the highway code scrupulously, and did not once jump a red light.

  ‘Pretty, don’t you think?’

  And Pyke pointed to the rows of little pink-brick houses which might have looked sad on a grey day, but made a charming picture in the sunshine, each with a square of lawn, hardly larger than a double bedsheet, between gate and front door. You could sense that he loved the sight of the London suburbs, in one of which he lived himself.

  The pink-brick houses were succeeded by yellow-brick ones, then brown, then pink again. It was getting warmer, and in some of the little gardens automatic hoses had been turned on.

  ‘I almost forgot to give you this.’

  And he handed Maigret a sheet of paper on which was written in French:

  Alain Lagrange, 19 years old, office clerk, checked in at 4 a.m. at the Gilmore Hotel, opposite Victoria Station, without luggage.

  Slept until eight, then went out.

  Walked into the Astoria Hotel, and inquired after a Madame Jeanne Debul.

  Then he went to the Continental, and Claridge’s, asking the same question.

  Seems to be approaching hotels in alphabetical order.

  Has never been to London before. Speaks no English.

  Maigret acknowledged this with a brief nod of thanks and more than ever regretted his hostility to the official earlier that morning.

  After a long silence and several more streets of similar houses, Pyke spoke:

  ‘I took the liberty of booking you into the hotel, because there are a lot of tourists in town at the moment.’

  He passed his companion a card with the name Savoy Hotel and the number of the suite. Maigret almost failed to notice it: his room number was 604.

  So they had lodged him directly opposite Jeanne Debul.

  ‘Is that person still there?’ he asked.

  ‘She was when we left Croydon. I got a phone call as your plane was on approach.’

  Nothing else. Pyke was looking pleased, not so much because he could prove to Maigret that the British police force was efficient, as because he could show off England to him on an indisputably fine summer’s day.

  As they reached central London, with its red double-decker buses, and its pavements thronged with women in summer dresses, he could not stop himself murmuring:

  ‘Fine sight, eh?’

  And as they approached the Savoy:

  ‘If you’re not too busy, I could come and pick you up for lunch at about one. I’ll be in the office until then, and you can always phone me.’

  And that was all. He let Maigret go into the hotel on his own, while the chauffeur handed his suitcase to one of the porters.

  Did the clerk at reception recognize him after twelve years? Did he know him only from photographs? Or was it simple professional courtesy? Or the fact that his room had been booked by Scotland Yard? Without waiting for him to speak, the clerk handed him a key:

  ‘Did you have a good journey, Monsieur Maigret?’

  ‘Very good, thank you.’

  The large front hall where, at any hour of day or night, there would be people relaxing in spacious armchairs, always impressed him a little. On the right was a flower stall. Every other man in the hall had one in his buttonhole, and no doubt because of Pyke’s happy mood, Maigret
bought himself a red carnation.

  He remembered that the bar was on the left. Feeling thirsty, he moved towards the glass door and tried to open it: in vain.

  ‘Not before half past eleven, sir!’

  He scowled. It was always like that when he travelled abroad. Some details that enchanted him, then others that irritated him. Why the devil had he no right to drink a glass of something before half past eleven? He had not slept all night, he felt a rush of blood to the head, and the sunshine was making him slightly dizzy. Perhaps it was also an effect of the motion of the aeroplane.

  As he made for the lift, an unfamiliar man approached him.

  ‘The lady has just had her breakfast sent up. Mr Pyke told me to keep you informed. Should I stay on watch for you, sir?’

  It was an officer from the Yard. Maigret thought he looked elegant, not at all out of place in this luxury hotel, and he too was wearing a flower in his buttonhole, a white one in his case.

  ‘The young man hasn’t shown up?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Can you keep an eye on the hall and let me know the minute he arrives?’

  ‘It’ll be a while before he gets to the letter S, sir. I think Inspector Pyke has one of my colleagues on duty at the Lancaster.’

  His bedroom was huge, leading off a pearl-grey sitting room, and the windows looked out on to the Thames, where he could see a pleasure boat going past, just like the ones in Paris, its two decks crammed with tourists.

  Maigret felt so hot that he decided to shower and change. He was on the point of telephoning Paris to have news of the Baron but changed his mind, got dressed and opened the outer door. Number 605 was directly opposite. Light showed under the door, indicating that the curtains were open. He was about to knock when he heard the sound of bathwater running, so he began to pace the corridor, smoking his pipe. A chambermaid who was passing gave him a curious look. She must have mentioned him to someone in authority, since a valet in tails came to look at him in turn. Then, seeing by his watch that it was 11.24, Maigret took the lift and was at the door to the bar the minute it opened. Other gentlemen who had been waiting in their armchairs for this moment were also hurrying inside.