Maigret's Revolver

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Scotch, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that’ll do.’

  ‘Soda?’

  His expression must have shown that he found his drink lacking in flavour as the barman offered:

  ‘A double, sir?’

  That felt much better already. He had never imagined that it could be as warm as this in London. He went outside for a breath of air in front of the large revolving door, glanced once more at the time, and went back to the lift.

  When he knocked at the door of 605, a woman’s voice said:

  ‘Entrez!’

  Then, no doubt imagining that it was room service, she called more loudly in English:

  ‘Come in!’

  He turned the handle and the door opened. He found himself in a room filled with dazzling sunlight, where a woman in a peignoir was sitting at her dressing table. She did not look at him at once, but went on brushing her dark hair, holding some hairpins between her teeth. It was in the mirror that she first caught sight of him. She frowned.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, from the Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘Does that give you the right to walk into people’s rooms?’

  ‘You said to come in.’

  It was hard to guess her age. She must have been very beautiful once, as was still evident. At night, under artificial light, she could probably still pass for younger, especially if the hard lines round her mouth which now appeared were to soften.

  ‘You can take that pipe out of your mouth, for a start.’

  He did so, awkwardly. He hadn’t thought about his pipe.

  ‘Now, if you have anything to say to me, it had better be quick. I can’t see what business the French police would have with me. Especially here, in London.’

  She was still not facing him, which made their exchange difficult. She must have known this and carried on doing her hair at the dressing table, watching him in the mirror. Standing there, he was aware of feeling too big and bulky. The bed had not been made. There was a tray with the remains of breakfast and the only seat he could see was a fragile Louis XV-style armchair which would not easily accommodate his large thighs.

  So, looking at her similarly, by way of the mirror, he simply said:

  ‘Alain is in London.’

  Either she had remarkable self-control, or the name meant nothing to her, for she showed no reaction.

  He continued in the same vein:

  ‘He is carrying a gun.’

  ‘And have you crossed the Channel to tell me that? Because I suppose you’ve come from Paris. What name did you say? Your own, I mean.’

  He was sure she was play-acting, hoping to annoy him.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘From which district?’

  ‘From the Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘And you’re looking for a young man called Alain? He’s not here. You can search my rooms if you want to be sure.’

  ‘He’s the one who’s looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s just what I would like to ask you.’

  This time she stood up, and he saw that she was almost his own height. She was wearing a salmon-pink peignoir made of heavy silk, which clung to the outline of her still graceful figure. She picked up a cigarette from a side table and lit it, then rang for the maître d’. For a moment he thought she was going to have him thrown out of her room, but when a flunkey from room service appeared, she simply said:

  ‘Scotch, no ice, tap water.’

  Then, when the door had closed, she turned towards Maigret.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say to you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Alain is the son of Baron Lagrange.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘And Lagrange is a friend of yours.’

  She nodded with the air of someone who pities the speaker.

  ‘Listen, inspector, I don’t know what you came here for, but you’re wasting your time. No doubt it’s a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘You are Jeanne Debul, are you not?’

  ‘That is my name. Do you want to see my passport?’

  He shook his head, indicating that there was no need.

  ‘Baron Lagrange regularly visits you in your apartment on Boulevard Richard-Wallace, and he probably came before that to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’

  ‘I see you have been making inquiries. So now can you tell me in what way the fact that I know Lagrange explains why you have come pursuing me to London?’

  ‘André Delteil is dead.’

  ‘You mean the politician?’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours too?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met him. I’ve heard of him, of course, everyone has, because of the stir he makes in the Assembly. If I have ever seen him in the flesh, it would be at a nightclub or restaurant.’

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Given his approach to politics, it wouldn’t be surprising if he had a number of enemies.’

  ‘The murder was committed in François Lagrange’s apartment.’

  There was a knock at the door. The waiter came in with the whisky. She took a mouthful, straightforwardly, like someone who is in the habit of drinking every day at the same time and, still holding the glass, went to sit down in the armchair, crossing her legs and drawing the sides of her peignoir across them.

  ‘And that’s all?’ she asked.

  ‘Alain Lagrange, the son, has got hold of an automatic revolver and cartridges. He showed up outside your address a little while before your precipitate departure.’

  ‘Would you mind repeating that word?’

  ‘Pre-cip-it-ate.’

  ‘And you are in a position to know for a fact, I presume, that the previous day I had no plans to come to London?’

  ‘You hadn’t told anyone.’

  ‘Do you tell your housemaid what your plans are? I suppose you’ve been questioning Georgette.’

  ‘That’s of no importance. Alain came to your address.’

  ‘Well, nobody told me about it. I didn’t hear anyone ring the bell.’

  ‘That’s because the concierge caught up with him on the stairs and he turned tail.’

  ‘And he told the concierge it was me he wanted to see?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Are you serious, inspector? Have you really come all this way to tell me a lot of trivial nonsense?’

  ‘You received a phone call from the Baron.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘And he told you what had happened. Or perhaps you already knew.’

  He felt hot. She was giving no ground at all, sitting there, calm and elegant, in her morning négligé outfit. From time to time, she moistened her lips from the glass, but did not offer him a drink and let him stay standing, feeling clumsy and awkward.

  ‘Lagrange is under arrest.’

  ‘That’s his business, and yours, I suppose. What does he have to say about it?’

  ‘He’s pretending to be insane.’

  ‘Well, he’s always been a bit mad.’

  ‘But he was a friend of yours.’

  ‘No, inspector. You can stop your devious questioning. You won’t get anything out of me, for the excellent reason that I have nothing to say. You may examine my passport, and you will see from it that I come over to London for a few days from time to time. I always stay in this hotel, as the staff will confirm. As for Lagrange, poor fellow, I’ve known him for years.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘That is none of your business, but I will tell you: in the most ordinary circumstances, in which a man and woman may meet.’

  ‘Was he your lover?’

  ‘I must say, you are tact personified.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Even supposing he might have been for a night, a week, or even a month, it must be all of twelve or fifteen years ago.’

  ‘And you remained good friends?’

  ‘Were we
supposed to quarrel, or start hitting each other?’

  ‘You were in the habit of receiving him in the morning in your bedroom before you got up.’

  ‘It’s morning now, the bed hasn’t been made, and here you are in my bedroom.’

  ‘Did you have any business dealings with him?’

  She smiled.

  ‘What kind of business would that be, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you know that any business arrangements that clown talked about were all in his mind? Didn’t you make any inquiries about him? Just go to Fouquet’s or Maxim’s or any bar on the Champs-Élysées, and they’ll soon tell you. It wasn’t worth taking the boat or the plane over here to find that out.’

  ‘And you gave him money?’

  ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘You will have realized by now, inspector, that I’m being very patient. I could have had you thrown out fifteen minutes ago, because you have no right to turn up like this and question me. But I will just tell you, once and for all, that you’re barking up the wrong tree. Yes, I used to know Baron Lagrange in the old days, when he had some style and made a better impression. I met up with him again on the Champs-Élysées, and he did to me what he does to everyone.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘He tried to get money out of me. You can easily find that out. He’s a man who’s eternally short of the few hundred francs he needs to make some fantastic deal and get rich in a matter of days. Which simply means that he doesn’t have enough cash to pay for the aperitif he’s drinking or the Métro to get back home. I did the same as everyone else.’

  ‘And he also came to your home to ask for more?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s all.’

  ‘Well, all the same, his son is searching for you.’

  ‘I’ve never met his son.’

  ‘He’s been in London since last night.’

  ‘In this hotel?’

  And this was the first time her voice had a slight catch in it, indicating some anxiety.

  ‘No.’

  He hesitated between two courses of action and plumped for the one he thought the better.

  ‘He’s staying at the Gilmore Hotel, opposite Victoria Station.’

  ‘And how do you know it’s me he is searching for?’

  ‘Because this morning he has already called in several hotels, asking for you. He seems to be working his way through the alphabet. He’ll be here in under an hour.’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out then what he wants with me, won’t we?’

  Her voice trembled a little.

  ‘As I said, he’s got a gun.’

  She shrugged her shoulders casually, stood up and looked at the door.

  ‘I suppose I ought to thank you for having the goodness to watch over me.’

  ‘There’s still time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘We’ve been doing nothing else for the past half-hour. And now I’ll ask you kindly to leave, because I need to get dressed.’

  She added, with a little laugh, and in a voice that had lost some of its edge:

  ‘If this young man proposes to visit me, I’d better be ready, hadn’t I?’

  Maigret left without another word, his shoulders hunched, infuriated both at himself and at her, since he had got nothing out of her and had felt throughout the interview that Jeanne Debul had had the upper hand. After closing the door, he stopped in the corridor. He would have liked to know whether she was telephoning or doing anything else in a hurry.

  Unfortunately, the chambermaid who had earlier seen him lurking outside was coming out of a nearby room and staring at him insistently. Feeling awkward, he set off towards the lift.

  Downstairs in the hall, he found the officer from the Yard settled in one of the armchairs, his eyes fixed on the revolving door. Maigret sat down alongside him.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  At this time of day there was a great deal of coming and going. A succession of cars pulled up outside the hotel, bringing not only travellers but Londoners coming to lunch, or simply for a drink at the bar. They all looked very cheerful. Indeed, everyone had the extremely happy expression that Mr Pyke had displayed earlier, because of the exceptional weather. Groups formed. There were always about three or four people standing at the reception desk. Women sat in armchairs, waiting for their escorts, whom they then followed into the dining room.

  Maigret remembered that there was another entrance to the hotel, from the Embankment. If he had been in Paris . . . it would have been so simple. Pyke had certainly put himself out to help, but Maigret did not wish to abuse his welcome. In fact, whenever he was in England, he was always afraid of looking ridiculous. Had Inspector Pyke had the same humiliating feeling on his visit to France?

  Upstairs in the corridor, for example, in France he would not have been put off his stroke by the appearance of a chambermaid. He would probably simply have said something to her, mentioning that he was from the police, and continued to keep watch.

  ‘Beautiful day, sir, isn’t it!’

  Even that was beginning to get on his nerves. These people were all too satisfied with their exceptional sunshine. Nothing else seemed to matter. Passers-by in the street seemed to be walking as if in a dream.

  ‘Do you think he’ll come, sir?’

  ‘Well, he probably will, won’t he? The Savoy must be on his list.’

  ‘I’m a little afraid that Fenton may have blundered.’

  ‘Who is Fenton?’

  ‘My colleague, the man Inspector Pyke posted at the Lancaster. He was supposed to sit in reception like me and wait. And then he was supposed to follow the young man.’

  ‘And he’s no good at his job?’

  ‘It’s not that, sir, he’s very good. But he has red hair and a moustache. So once you’ve seen him, you’ll remember him if you see him again.’

  The officer glanced at the time and sighed.

  Maigret was watching the lifts. Jeanne Debul emerged from one of them, wearing an elegant spring outfit. She appeared perfectly at ease. On her lips was the vague smile of a woman who knows she is beautiful and well dressed. Several men’s eyes turned towards her. Maigret had noticed the large diamond on her finger.

  Acting entirely naturally, she took a few steps into the hall, looking at the faces around her, then left her room key with the concierge and hesitated.

  She had seen Maigret. Was it for his benefit that she staged the little scene?

  There were two possible places to eat lunch: the large dining room opening off the back of the hall, with wide bay windows facing the Thames, and the Savoy Grill, smaller and less imposing, where there were more diners, with windows giving a view of the hotel entrance.

  It was to the Grill that she eventually headed. She spoke briefly to the maître d’, who led her attentively to a little table near a window.

  Just then, the officer alongside Maigret said:

  ‘Here he is.’

  Maigret turned sharply to view the street and the revolving door, but saw no one corresponding to the photograph of Alain Lagrange. He was opening his mouth to ask a question, but before the words passed his lips, he understood. A little man with flaming red hair and a conspicuous moustache was approaching the door.

  It wasn’t Alain but the police officer, Fenton. He looked round for his colleague, went over to him and, ignoring the presence of Maigret, asked:

  ‘He hasn’t turned up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He came to the Lancaster. Then I followed him. He went to the Montreal. I’m wondering whether he saw me. He turned round two or three times. Then he suddenly jumped into a taxi. I lost a minute trying to find another myself. I’ve been to five hotels, and he hasn’t . . .’

  One of the bellhops was leaning over Maigret.

  ‘The head clerk at reception would like a word with you,’ he whispered.

  Maigret followed him. The head clerk, wearing a morning c
oat and a flower in his buttonhole, was holding a telephone handset. He winked at Maigret, a sign that the inspector thought he could interpret. Then he spoke into the mouthpiece:

  ‘I’ll pass you on to someone who will be able to answer your question.’

  Maigret took the receiver.

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘You speak French?’

  ‘Yes . . . Oui . . . Je parle français.’

  ‘I want to know if Madame Jeanne Debul is staying at the hotel.’

  ‘On whose behalf?’

  ‘One of her friends.’

  ‘Do you wish to speak to her? I can put you through to her room.’

  ‘No . . . No.’

  The voice sounded distant.

  ‘Her key is not on the board, so she must be in. I expect she will be downstairs before long.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can’t I—?’

  But Alain had already hung up. He was no fool, it seemed. He must have realized he was being followed, and rather than present himself in person at the different hotels, he had decided to telephone, either from a public kiosk or from a bar.

  The reception clerk was now passing Maigret another telephone receiver.

  ‘Another call for you, Monsieur Maigret.’

  This time it was Pyke asking if they could have lunch together.

  ‘No, it would be preferable for me to stay here.’

  ‘Have my men been successful?’

  ‘Not entirely. It’s not their fault.’

  ‘The trail’s gone cold?’

  ‘No, he will certainly be coming here, sooner or later.’

  ‘At any rate, they will remain at your disposal.’

  ‘I’ll keep the one who isn’t called Fenton, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Keep Bryan. Good choice. He’s intelligent. This evening perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He rejoined the two Englishmen who were still chatting but fell silent as he arrived. Bryan must have been explaining to Fenton who he was, and the redhead looked contrite.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fenton. I’ve picked up the whereabouts of the young man, and won’t be needing you again today. Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Never on duty.’

  ‘Mr Bryan, what I’d like you to do is to go and order lunch near the lady who is wearing a blue flowered jacket and skirt. If she goes out, try to follow her.’