Georges Simenon
* * *
MAIGRET’S ANGER
Translated by WILLIAM HOBSON
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.
Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic:
My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points … ‘Understand and judge not’.
Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.
PENGUIN CLASSICS
MAIGRET’S ANGER
‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’
– John Banville
‘A brilliant writer’
– India Knight
‘Intense atmosphere and resonant detail … make Simenon’s fiction remarkably like life’
– Julian Barnes
‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’
– Muriel Spark
‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’
– A. N. Wilson
‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’
– John Gray
‘A writer of genius, one whose simplicity of language creates indelible images that the florid stylists of our own day can only dream of’
– Daily Mail
‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’
– Anita Brookner
‘One of the greatest writers of our time’
– The Sunday Times
‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’
– William Faulkner
‘One of the great psychological novelists of this century’
– Independent
‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’
– André Gide
‘Simenon ought to be spoken of in the same breath as Camus, Beckett and Kafka’
– Independent on Sunday
1.
It was 12.15 when Maigret went through the permanently cool archway and out of the gate flanked by two uniformed policemen who were hugging the walls to get a little shade. He waved to them, then stood for a moment motionless and undecided, looking towards the courtyard, then towards Place Dauphine, then back towards the courtyard.
Under the pretence of relighting his pipe he had stopped several times in the corridor upstairs, then on the dusty stairs, in the hope that one of his colleagues or inspectors would suddenly appear from somewhere. It was unusual for the stairs to be deserted at that time, but this year on 12 June a holiday atmosphere already prevailed at police headquarters.
Some people had gone away at the start of the month to avoid the crush of July and August, while others were getting ready for the annual exodus. After a dismal spring, it had suddenly turned hot that morning, and Maigret had worked in his shirt-sleeves with the windows open.
Apart from the daily briefing with the head of the Police Judiciaire and one or two visits to the inspectors’ office, he had spent the morning on his own, working on a tedious administrative chore he had started a few days earlier. Files piled up in front of him, and every now and then he would lift his head like a schoolboy, eyes fixed on the leaves hanging motionless on the trees, listening to Paris’s murmur, which had just taken on the particular quality it has on hot summer days.
For the past fortnight he hadn’t missed a single meal at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir or been disturbed in the evening or at night.
Normally he would have turned left on the embankment and headed towards Pont Saint-Michel to get a bus or taxi. The courtyard remained resolutely empty. No one came and joined him.
Eventually, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he turned right instead, and on reaching Place Dauphine cut across the square. Leaving his office, he had suddenly felt like going to the Brasserie Dauphine for an aperitif, despite the advice of his friend Pardon, the doctor in Rue Picpus, at whose house he and Madame Maigret had had dinner the previous week.
He had been good for several weeks, restricting himself to a glass of wine at meals and the occasional beer with his wife when they went out in the evening.
Now suddenly he missed the smell of the bistro on Place Dauphine, the aniseed taste of its aperitifs that went down so well on days like this. He had been hoping to run into someone who would drag him off there, but no such luck, and he felt guilty as he climbed the little brasserie’s three steps. A long, low, red car was parked outside, which he looked at curiously.
Oh well! Pardon had advised him to take care of his liver but he hadn’t barred him from having an aperitif – just one – after weeks of near total abstinence.
He recognized some familiar faces around the bar, at least a dozen members of the Police Judiciaire who had almost as little work as him and had left early. It happened from time to time: a few days’ lull, the office quiet as the grave, just routine matters, as they were known, and then suddenly cases would flood in so fast that no one could catch their breath.
The men waved to him in greeting, squeezed up to make room for him at the bar. Pointing to the glasses filled with a milky-coloured drink, he muttered:
‘Same here …’
The owner had already been there thirty years earlier, when Maigret had started at Quai des Orfèvres, but in those days he had been the son and heir. Now there was another son, wearing a white chef’s hat in the kitchen, looking just as he had when he was a boy.
‘How’s things, chief?’
‘Fine.’
The smell hadn’t changed. Every little brasserie in Paris has its distinctive aroma. In this one, for instance, against a background of aperitifs and liqueurs, a connoisseur would have discerned the slightly sharp bouquet of the ordinary wines of the Loire and a preference for tarragon and chives in the cooking.
Maigret automatically read the menu on the slate: baby whiting from Brittany and veal liver en papillottes. As he did so, he caught sight of Lucas in the dining room with its paper tablecloths. No one was eating lunch yet, and Lucas seemed to have taken refuge in there to have a quiet chat with a man Maigret didn’t recognize.
Lucas saw Maigret too. He hesitated, then got up and came out.
‘Do you have a moment, chief? I think this might interest you …’
Maigret followed him, glass in hand. The stranger stood up. Lucas made the introductions: ‘Antonio Farano … Do you know him?’
The name didn’t ring any bells, but Maigret thought he had seen the handsome Italian with the movie star looks before. He was probably the owner of the red sports car outside. It went with his appearance, the flashy cut of his light-coloured clothes, the heavy signet ring he was wearing on his finger.
As the three men sat down, Lucas went on, ‘He showed up at the office wanting to see me just after I’d left. Lapointe told him he might find me here …’
Maigret noticed that Lucas was also having an aperitif, while Farano was making do with a fruit juice.
‘He’s Émile Boulay’s brothe
r-in-law. He runs one of his clubs, the Paris-Strip on Rue de Berri …’
Lucas winked discreetly at his boss.
‘Say what you just told me, Farano …’
‘Well, my brother-in-law has disappeared …’
He still had his native accent.
‘When?’ asked Lucas.
‘Last night, probably. We don’t know exactly …’
He was overawed by Maigret. To distract from his nervousness, he took a cigarette case out of his pocket.
‘Do you mind?’
‘Go ahead …’
For Maigret’s benefit, Lucas explained:
‘You know Boulay, chief. He’s the little guy who turned up from Le Havre four or five years ago …’
‘Seven,’ the Italian corrected him.
‘Seven years ago, right … He bought his first club on Rue Pigalle, the Lotus, and now he’s got four …’
Maigret wondered why Lucas wanted to involve him. He hardly ever had dealings with that world now he had taken over the Crime Squad. He used to know it well but he’d lost touch with it a little recently. He hadn’t set foot in a club for at least two years, and he only knew a few of Pigalle’s villains these days, mainly from the older generation, because it was a small world which was constantly changing.
‘I wonder,’ Lucas went on, ‘if this hasn’t got something to do with the Mazotti case …’
Ah, right! He was beginning to understand. Mazotti had been shot as he was leaving a bar on Rue Fontaine around three o’clock in the morning. When was that? About a month ago now, mid-May roughly. Maigret remembered a report from the ninth arrondissement, which he had passed on to Lucas, saying, ‘Probably a settling of old scores … Do your best.’
Mazotti wasn’t an Italian, like Farano, but a Corsican who had started out on the Côte d’Azur before coming up to Paris with a little gang he had put together.
‘My brother-in-law didn’t kill Mazotti,’ Farano insisted with feeling. ‘You know he’s not that kind of person, Monsieur Lucas. Besides, you questioned him twice in your office.’
‘I never accused him of killing Mazotti. He was just one of the people I called in because Mazotti had gone after them. Quite a crowd, in other words …’
Turning to Maigret, he explained:
‘I’d actually called him in for questioning at eleven this morning, so I was surprised not to see him.’
‘Doesn’t he ever spend the night elsewhere?’ Maigret asked ingenuously.
‘Never. You obviously don’t know him. That’s just not his way. He loves my sister, family life. He’d never come home later than four in the morning.’
‘And last night he didn’t come home at all, is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At the Paris-Strip … We didn’t shut until at least five. It’s high season for us because Paris is already swarming with tourists. When I was cashing up, Marina rang to ask if I’d seen Émile – Marina’s my sister. I hadn’t seen my brother-in-law all night. He hardly ever came down to the Champs-Elysées.’
‘Where are his other clubs?’
‘They’re all in Montmartre, a few hundred metres from each other. It was his idea to do it like that, and it worked out well. When you have clubs virtually next door to each other, you can shuffle performers around between them and keep overheads down.
‘The Lotus is right at the top of Rue Pigalle, the Train Bleu’s just around the corner in Rue Victor-Massé, and the Saint-Trop’ is down the hill a bit, on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.
‘Émile was unsure about opening a club in another part of town, and it was really the only one he didn’t take care of himself. He let me run it for him.’
‘So your sister rang you a little after five o’clock.’
‘Yes. She’s so used to being woken up by her husband.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I called the Lotus first, where they said he’d left at around eleven in the evening. He also went by the Train Bleu, but the cashier couldn’t say exactly when … And the Saint-Trop’ was closed when I tried to call.’
‘Your brother wasn’t meeting anyone last night as far as you know, was he?’
‘No. I told you: he was a quiet man, very much a creature of habit. He’d have dinner at home—’
‘What’s his address?’
‘Rue Victor-Massé—’
‘In the same building as the Train Bleu?’
‘No, three doors along … So, he’d have dinner, then he’d go to the Lotus first to supervise preparations for the night. That’s the biggest club, and he ran it personally. Then he’d go down to the Saint-Trop’ and stay there for a while, then he’d carry on to the Train Bleu, and then he’d start the whole circuit again … He did it two or three times a night because he liked to keep an eye on everything.’
‘Was he in a dinner jacket?’
‘No. He used to wear a dark suit, midnight blue, but never a dinner jacket. He wasn’t that fussed about dressing stylishly.’
‘You talk about him in the past.’
‘Because I’m sure something’s happened to him.’
Various tables were starting to eat, and Maigret found himself eyeing their plates of food and carafes of white wine. His glass was empty, but he resisted the urge to order another.
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I asked my sister to call me if there was any news, then went to bed.’
‘Did she?’
‘Around eight in the morning.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Rue de Ponthieu.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes. My wife’s Italian too. I spent the morning calling round the staff of the three clubs. I was trying to find out where he’d been seen last, and when. It’s not easy … The clubs are packed most of the night, and everyone’s concentrating on their work. Émile didn’t stand out that much, either. He was a short, skinny guy whom customers never realized was the owner, and sometimes he’d stand out front with the doorman for hours.’
Lucas nodded in agreement.
‘No one seems to have seen him after eleven thirty.’
‘Who saw him last?’
‘I haven’t been able to ask everybody. Some of the barmen and musicians don’t have telephones and I don’t know most of the girls’ addresses. I’ll only be able to ask around properly this evening when everyone’s at work.
‘So far, the last person to have talked to him is the Lotus’ doorman, Louis Boubée, a tiny character no taller or heavier than a jockey, who’s known around Montmartre as Mickey.
‘Which means that, between eleven and eleven thirty, Émile came out of the Lotus and kept Mickey company on the pavement while he did his usual thing of rushing forward to open the door every time a car stopped.’
‘Did they talk?’
‘Émile wasn’t much of a talker. Apparently he looked at his watch a few times before heading off down the street. Mickey thought he was going to the Saint-Trop’.’
‘Did your brother-in-law have a car?’
‘No. Not since the accident.’
‘What accident?’
‘It was seven years ago. He was still living in Le Havre, where he had a little club, the Monaco. One day he was driving to Rouen with his wife …’
‘Was he already married to your sister?’
‘This was his first wife, a Frenchwoman from around Le Havre called Marie Pirouet. She was expecting a child. In fact they were going to Rouen to consult a specialist. It was raining. As they were taking a corner, the car skidded and smashed into a tree. Émile’s wife was killed instantly …’
‘What about him?’
‘He got off with just a gash to the cheek that left him with a scar. Most people in Montmartre think he was stabbed.’
‘Did he love his wife?’
‘Very much. He’d known her since he was a child …’
‘Was he born in Le Havre?’
‘Do you reckon someone’s done away with him?’
‘I think that if nothing had happened to him he would have been home a long time ago.’
‘Did he live alone with your sister?’
‘No. My mother lives with them, as does my other sister, Ada, who’s his secretary. And then there’s the two children: Émile and Marina have two children, you see. A three-year old boy, Lucien, and a little girl who’s ten months old.’
‘Do you suspect anyone?’
Antonio shook his head.
‘Do you feel your brother-in-law’s disappearance has anything to do with the Mazotti case?’
‘One thing I’m sure of is that Émile didn’t kill Mazotti.’
Maigret turned to Lucas, who had been in charge of the investigation.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m certain of that too, chief. I questioned him twice and he seemed to give me straight answers both times. As Antonio says, he’s on the puny side, shy, almost – not the sort of character you’d expect to find running a string of nightclubs. Which is not to say that when it came to Mazotti, he couldn’t look after himself.’
‘How?’
‘Mazotti and his gang had organized an extortion racket that wasn’t original in the slightest but they’d got it down to a tee. They made out they were offering protection, but it was just a way of extorting money. They demanded different amounts each week from all the club owners …
‘Most refused at first. There then followed a well-rehearsed routine. When the club was full Mazotti would come in with a couple of heavies. They’d sit at a table or the bar, whichever was free, order champagne and then pick a fight in the middle of an act. There’d be muttering first, then they’d start shouting, going after the barman or maître d’, calling him a thief. Glasses would be smashed and it would end up in a free-for-all, more or less. Naturally most of the customers would leave, swearing never to come back. Next time Mazotti visited the owners preferred to pay up.’
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