Maigret's Revolver

by Georges Simenon

  A slight smile crept across Bryan’s features as he watched his colleague walk off.

  ‘You can count on me.’

  ‘Put the bill on my account.’

  Maigret was feeling thirsty. And he went on feeling thirsty for half an hour. Since the deep armchairs made him feel warm, he stood up and wandered round the hall, ill at ease among these people speaking English, who all had a reason to be there.

  How many times did he see the door revolve, sending a flash of sunlight across the walls? It seemed to happen more than before. There was a constant flow. Cars drew up and left, the old-fashioned, comfortable and picturesque London taxis, Bentleys and Rolls-Royces with impeccably turned out chauffeurs, or little sports cars.

  His throat was swollen with thirst and from where he stood he could see the bar full of customers, the pale martinis, which from a distance looked so cool in their clouded glasses, and the whiskies that the men standing at the bar were holding in their hands.

  But if he went in there, he would lose sight of the door. He moved closer, then retreated, and regretted sending Fenton away, since he could after all have kept watch for a few minutes. As for Bryan, he was now eating and drinking. Maigret was beginning to feel hungry as well.

  He was just sitting back down with a sigh, when an elderly white-haired gentleman in the next armchair pressed an electric bell that Maigret had not noticed. A few moments later a white-jacketed waiter was leaning over him.

  ‘A double Scotch on the rocks, please!’

  So that was how it was done! As simple as that. It had not occurred to him that he could be served in the hall.

  ‘The same for me too, please. Or, I suppose you don’t have any beer?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. What kind of beer would you like?’

  The bar had all kinds, Dutch, Danish, German, and even some French export beer that Maigret had never heard of.

  In France he would have asked for two glasses at once, so thirsty was he. Here, he didn’t dare. And he was furious with himself for not daring. It humiliated him to feel intimidated.

  Were the waiters, the maîtres d’, the bellhops and porters more impressive than in Parisian luxury hotels? It seemed to him as though everyone was staring at him and that the old gentleman on his left was scrutinizing him with a critical eye.

  Now, was Alain Lagrange going to make up his mind to come or not?

  It was not the first time this had happened to him: Maigret was all at once, for no reason, losing confidence in himself. What was he doing here, when it came down to it? He had spent a sleepless night. He had drunk coffee in a concierge’s lodge, then listened to the ramblings of a plump girl in pink pyjamas who kept flashing a stretch of her belly at him and had tried very hard to seem interesting.

  What else? Alain Lagrange had stolen his revolver, then threatened someone in the street and seized his wallet before taking the plane to London. Meanwhile, in the Special Infirmary, the Baron was pretending to be insane.

  What if he really was insane?

  And supposing Alain did turn up at the hotel, what was Maigret going to do? Go up to him politely? Tell him he needed to do some explaining, and that they would have to have a talk?

  And what if he tried to escape, or turned violent? What would Maigret look like in front of all these English people beaming at the good weather, if he attacked a youth? Perhaps everyone would fall on him?

  This had happened to him once when he was young and was policing public transport. The moment he had clapped his hand on the shoulder of a pickpocket coming out of the Métro, the man had started yelling ‘Help! Help!’ And the crowd had then held on to Maigret until the local police arrived.

  He was still thirsty, but hesitated to ring for a waiter, then finally pressed the white button, certain that his elderly neighbour would consider him an unmannerly fellow who drank any number of beers on end.

  And then he thought he saw a figure outside, and said without thinking:

  ‘Whisky and soda!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It wasn’t Alain. From closer up the man was nothing like him, and was in any case joining a girl waiting for him at the bar.

  Maigret was still sitting there, bemused, with a bad taste in his mouth when Jeanne Debul, visibly in excellent spirits, walked out of the Grill towards the revolving door.

  Once outside, she waited for one of the porters to hail a taxi for her. Bryan was following her, looking cheerful too, and he winked at Maigret as he went past. He seemed to be saying: ‘Don’t worry!’ And he got into a second taxi.

  If Alain Lagrange had been doing them any favours, he would have turned up now. Jeanne Debul had left the building. There was no danger that he would rush at her and fire his automatic. The front hall was quieter than half an hour earlier. People had finished their lunch. With flushed cheeks, they were streaming out, one after another, back to their offices or for a stroll down Piccadilly or Regent Street.

  ‘Same again, sir?’

  ‘No, this time I’d like a sandwich.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are not allowed to serve food in the hall.’

  He could have wept with rage.

  ‘Oh, give me what you like, then. Yes, the same again!’

  The hell with it! It wasn’t his fault after all!

  7.

  Concerning a real bar of chocolate and a cat that caused a stir in the neighbourhood in times gone by

  At three o’clock, three thirty and four o’clock, Maigret was still there, and still as uncomfortable as when, after days of sultry, stormy weather, people glower at each other, so oppressed by the heat that you expect to see them open their mouths to pant like fish out of water.

  But with the difference that he was the only person in this state. There wasn’t the shadow of a storm in the air. The sky above the Strand was still a brilliant blue, verging on violet, with an occasional little white cloud floating across its surface, like a feather escaping from an eiderdown.

  Now and then, he found himself examining his neighbours as if he felt personal animosity towards them. At other moments, an inferiority complex weighed down on him and made him look sullen.

  They were all too clean, all too sure of themselves!

  The most exasperating of all was the head clerk at reception, in his elegant morning coat and stiff collar, which was not wilting with a drop of perspiration. He must have taken a liking to Maigret, or was possibly feeling sorry for him, as from time to time he flashed him a smile, intended to be both complicit and encouraging.

  He seemed to be saying, over the crowd of anonymous travellers: ‘We’re both victims of our professional duty. Can I do anything for you?’

  Maigret would no doubt have replied: ‘You could bring me a sandwich!’

  He felt sleepy. And hot. And hungry. When a few minutes after three o’clock, he had rung for another glass of beer, the waiter had looked as shocked as if he had turned up at church in shirt-sleeves.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the bar is now closed until half past five!’

  And Maigret had muttered something like ‘Barbarians!’

  Ten minutes later, he had hesitatingly approached a bellhop, the youngest and least daunting of them.

  ‘Can you go and buy me a bar of chocolate?’

  He could last out no longer without something to eat, so he devoured one by one small pieces from a bar of chocolate which he kept hidden in his pocket. By now, in this luxury hotel, he was surely looking like a caricature of a French policeman, the kind journalists describe as a clodhopper. He caught himself glancing at his reflection, and thought he appeared clumsy and badly dressed. Pyke, on the other hand, could pass for a bank manager rather than a policeman. Or perhaps an assistant bank manager. At any rate a trusted employee, a meticulous head clerk.

  Would Pyke have been willing to sit and wait, as Maigret now was, without even knowing whether anything would happen?

  At twenty to four, the reception clerk beckoned him over.

  ‘P
aris is on the phone for you. Perhaps you would like to take the call from the desk?’

  There was a row of telephone cabins on the right, but if he had gone inside one, he would not have been able to watch the door.

  ‘Is that you, chief?’

  It did him good to hear Lucas’ cheerful voice.

  ‘Any news your end?’

  ‘We’ve found the gun. I thought it best to let you know.’

  ‘Details?’

  ‘Just before noon, I went over to look round the old man’s place.’

  ‘Rue Popincourt?’

  ‘Yes. I went just on the off-chance, to have another poke around everywhere. Didn’t find anything. Then because I heard a baby crying down in the yard, I leaned out of the window. You probably remember, his apartment’s on the top floor and the ceilings are quite low. There’s a corner gutter to collect rainwater and I saw that you could reach it with your hand.’

  ‘And the gun was in the gutter?’

  ‘That’s right, just below the window. A pretty little piece, automatic, made in Belgium. Initials on it: A. D.’

  ‘André Delteil?’

  ‘Exactly. I checked at the prefecture of police. The politician had a gun permit. The number matched.’

  ‘And that was the murder weapon?’

  ‘Forensics have just given me a report by phone. I waited for it before calling you. Yes, positive.’

  ‘Prints?’

  ‘Just the dead man’s and François Lagrange’s.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The afternoon papers here are full of it. There’s a crowd of reporters in our corridor. I believe one of them has heard about your going to London, and he’s taken a plane over. Rateau has telephoned us two or three times to ask if you are making any progress.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Lovely weather here.’

  Even Lucas!

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘Yes, chief, a very good one!’

  ‘Well, I haven’t! Hello! Don’t cut me off please, mademoiselle. Lucas, are you listening? I want you to put a watch on the building at 7a, Boulevard Richard-Wallace, just in case. And question the taxi-drivers, in case one of them picked up Alain Lagrange anywhere; the son, you know, you’ve got his photo.’

  ‘Got it, chief.’

  ‘You need to find out whether anyone drove him on Thursday morning to Gare du Nord.’

  ‘I thought he’d gone overnight by plane.’

  ‘Never mind. Tell the chief I’ll be in touch when I have anything to report.’

  ‘You haven’t found the kid yet?’

  Maigret preferred not to answer. It irked him to know that he had had Alain on the other end of the line, that for hours his movements across London had been tracked, minute by minute, but that they were still no further forward.

  Alain Lagrange, with Maigret’s large automatic in his pocket, was somewhere around, not far away, no doubt, and all the inspector could do was watch the crowd of people coming and going before his eyes.

  ‘Very well, that’s all for now.’

  His eyelids were stinging. He dared not sit back down in an armchair, for fear of falling asleep. And the chocolate was making him feel sick.

  He went out to take a breath of air on the street.

  ‘Taxi, sir?’

  No, he couldn’t take a taxi, any more than he could go for a walk. He couldn’t do anything except stay on the spot, like an imbecile.

  ‘Lovely weather, sir!’

  No sooner was he back inside the hall than his private enemy the reception clerk was calling him over, telephone in hand.

  ‘For you, Monsieur Maigret.’

  This time, it was Pyke.

  ‘I’ve just had a report from Bryan, so I’m passing it on.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The lady left the cab at Piccadilly Circus and walked up Regent Street, doing some window-shopping. She didn’t seem in a hurry. She went into two or three shops, bought various items, and asked for them to be delivered to the Savoy. Do you want a list?’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Lingerie, gloves, shoes. Then she went on along Old Bond Street and back down Piccadilly, and half an hour ago she went into a cinema with a continuous film show. Bryan is still watching her.’

  Another detail which would ordinarily not have troubled him, but which now put him in a bad mood: instead of telephoning Maigret directly, Bryan had reported to his hierarchical superior.

  ‘Still on for dinner tonight?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m beginning to think not.’

  ‘Fenton is distraught about what happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘If you need another of my men, or even several—’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  But what in heaven’s name was the wretched Alain up to? Had Maigret been mistaken about this all along?

  ‘Can you get me the Gilmore Hotel?’ he asked, once he had finished the call with Pyke.

  From the reception clerk’s expression, he guessed this was not a five-star hotel. And now he had to speak English, since the man at the other end didn’t have a word of French.

  ‘Did a Monsieur Alain Lagrange, who checked in with you very early this morning, come back during the day?’

  ‘Who’s speaking, please?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire, Paris.’

  ‘Hold on, please.’

  He had called someone else, who must be more important, and who had a more solemn voice.

  ‘I beg your pardon. This is the manager of the Gilmore Hotel.’

  Maigret repeated his request.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  He embarked on a roundabout explanation, for want of finding the right words in English. In the end, the reception clerk took the telephone from him.

  ‘Allow me?’

  He needed to pronounce only two sentences including a reference to Scotland Yard. When he hung up, he looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘These people are always a little distrustful of foreigners. The manager of the Gilmore had been wondering, in fact, whether he should call the police. The young man picked up his key and went to his room at about one o’clock. He didn’t stay there long. Later, one of the chambermaids, who was cleaning a room on the same floor, reported that her master key, which she had left in the lock, had disappeared. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  In fact, it altered the impression he had had so far of Alain. The young man had been thinking hard since the morning. He had told himself that if the master key of a member of staff opens all the rooms in one hotel, there’s a good chance it would open the rooms of another hotel.

  Maigret went back to sit down. It was five o’clock. Suddenly, he returned to reception.

  ‘Do you think it would be possible for a key from the Gilmore to open any rooms here?’

  ‘It’s unlikely.’

  ‘Would you mind checking that none of your chambermaids has lost a master key today?’

  ‘I suppose if she had, she would have reported it to the floor manager, and she would have . . . Wait just a minute.’

  He finished dealing with a hotel guest who wanted to change rooms because there was too much sunlight in his, then disappeared into a nearby office, where the telephone rang several times.

  When he came back, he was less defensive, and his brow was furrowed.

  ‘You were right. A set of keys has gone missing on the sixth floor.’

  ‘In the same way as at the Gilmore?’

  ‘Yes, just the same. The maids all have this habit, in spite of the rules, of leaving the keys in the lock.’

  ‘And how long ago was this?’

  ‘Half an hour ago. Do you think this is going to cause trouble for us?’

  And the man gazed round the hall with the anxious air of a captain responsible for his ship. Cost what it might, he needed to avoi
d the slightest mishap that might tarnish the brilliance of this beautiful summer’s day.

  In France, Maigret would have said: ‘Give me another master key. I’m going up there. If Jeanne Debul comes back, keep her down here for a while and warn me.’

  But not here. He was sure they would not let him go into another person’s hotel room without a warrant.

  He was prudent enough to carry on pacing in the hall for a while. Then he decided to wait for the bar to open, which was only a few minutes ahead, and neglecting briefly to watch the door, he allowed himself time to drink two half pints of beer.

  ‘Thirsty, are we, sir?’

  ‘Yes!’

  And his ‘yes’ was ferocious enough to silence the smiling barman.

  He worked his way round so as not to be seen from the reception desk, and took the lift, worried by the thought that his entire plan now depended on the goodwill of a member of the hotel staff.

  The long corridor was empty when he reached it, and he slowed down, waiting until he saw a door open: a valet in a pinstriped waistcoat emerged, holding a pair of gentleman’s shoes.

  Then, with the assurance of a casual guest, whistling a tune, he headed towards the man, before feeling in his pockets, and looking embarrassed.

  ‘Valet, please,’ he said in English.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He kept on patting his pockets. This wasn’t the same man as earlier in the day. He must have just come on duty.

  ‘Could you be so kind as to open my door for me, to save me going downstairs to fetch my key?’

  The valet was unsuspecting.

  ‘With pleasure, sir.’

  When the door was opened, he did not look inside, where he would have seen a woman’s dressing gown hanging up.

  Maigret closed the door with care, mopped his forehead and went into the middle of the bedroom, where he said in a normal voice, as if he were carrying on a conversation:

  ‘Well, here we are at last!’

  He had not peered into the bathroom, although the door was open, nor into the cupboards. In fact, he was more apprehensive than he appeared, or than his voice would lead anyone to suspect.

  ‘Now then, son. At last we’re going to be able to have a little chat, just the two of us.’

  He sat down heavily in an armchair, took a pipe from his pocket and lit it. He was sure that Alain Lagrange was hiding somewhere, perhaps in one of the wardrobes, perhaps under the bed.