Maigret's First Case

by Georges Simenon

  After a quarter of an hour, he ventured to ask:

  ‘Is the chief inspector not here?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Where are the people who were picked up last night?’

  He hadn’t seen anyone in the vast room where they normally herded their victims.

  ‘Upstairs.’

  He didn’t dare ask permission to go up to Criminal Records. The men were made to go up in a crocodile, like school children, then forced to strip and stand in a line. They were examined one by one and any tattoos and distinguishing marks were noted. Then they were allowed to put their clothes back on before being measured and photographed and lastly having their fingerprints taken.

  Was Dédé in the queue among the vagrants and tramps, as cocksure as ever?

  In years to come, when he was part of the chief’s squad, Maigret would be able to come and go as he pleased anywhere in the building.

  Meanwhile, a doctor was examining the women in another room and the sick were sent to the Saint-Lazare infirmary.

  ‘Are you certain that the chief inspector is still busy?’

  He had been waiting for more than half an hour. He thought he caught the three men exchanging amused glances.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until he rings.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know I’m here. I’m working on an important case. He must be informed.’

  ‘You’re from Saint-Georges, aren’t you?’

  And one of the officers, the one who was writing, glanced at a piece of paper on his desk.

  ‘Jules Maigret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  There wasn’t the slightest sound from the adjacent room where the chief inspector was supposed to be. After Maigret had been waiting for over an hour, he came in, not from his office but from outside.

  ‘Are you Le Bret’s secretary?’

  At last he was being taken care of instead of being left to twiddle his thumbs like a supplicant.

  ‘You look as if you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I’d like—’

  ‘I know. You want to question a man named Dédé. I think he’s come back down. Would you check, Gérard? If he’s here, have him brought into my office.’

  And to Maigret:

  ‘Come in, please. You may use my office for a while.’

  ‘I also need to question the woman.’

  ‘Fine. Just have the sergeant bring her in.’

  Somehow this didn’t feel quite right. Maigret had imagined that things would happen differently, but he wasn’t worried yet. He wasn’t acquainted with the habits of the place and he felt intimidated.

  An officer brought Dédé in, then left, and so did the chief inspector, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Well, Jules?’

  The garage owner from Rue des Acacias was wearing the same suit as the night before. Only his tie and bootlaces had been removed, in accordance with the rules, which made him look a little dishevelled. Maigret gingerly sat down at the chief inspector’s desk.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t do too much damage,’ declared Dédé. ‘These gentlemen will tell you: the first thing I said when they brought me here was to ask after you.’

  ‘You knew who I was, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘And I knew you knew,’ said Maigret simply.

  ‘So you suspected that we were going to beat you up? And supposing we’d finished you off completely?’

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘All right. You can call me Dédé.’

  Maigret wasn’t used to the lack of formality, but he knew that that was how his colleagues spoke to people here.

  ‘I know a lot of other things too, and I’m sure we’ll be able to come to an understanding.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘The count is dead.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘On the night of the 15th of April, you drove the count, in your car, to Rue Chaptal and you waited for him without switching off the engine.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘A window opened, a woman screamed and there was a shot. Then you drove off towards Rue Fontaine. You drove round the block. You stopped for quite a while in Rue Victor-Massé, then you cruised down Rue Chaptal one more time, to see if Bob had come out.’

  Dédé watched him, smiling calmly.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you? Those swine took everything I had in my pockets.’

  ‘I only smoke a pipe. You knew why the count had gone to the house.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘You knew that something ugly had happened. The next day, you didn’t see anything in the papers. The count didn’t return. The day after that, still no news.’

  ‘Now this is getting interesting.’

  ‘You drove over and hung around the street again. Then, guessing what must have occurred, you went to see Richard Gendreau. Not at his house but at his office.’

  ‘And what did I say to that gentleman?’

  ‘That you would keep quiet in exchange for a sum of money, fifty thousand francs probably. Because, knowing why Bob went to Rue Chaptal, you knew why he was killed.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘What are you offering me?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m asking you to talk.’

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’

  ‘The count knew the Gendreau family. He had visited the young lady several times. Was he her lover?’

  ‘Did you ever see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you’d seen him, you wouldn’t be asking me that question. He wasn’t the sort of fellow to let slip an opportunity.’

  ‘There was talk of marriage, wasn’t there?’

  ‘You know? I like you. I was actually saying to Lucile: pity he’s a fool! How stupid to become a cop when you’re built like that and you’re not afraid of hard work!’

  ‘Do you prefer prison?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘If you talk, it’s likely that we’ll drop the charge of blackmailing Richard Gendreau.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll file a complaint?’

  ‘We’ll also drop the charge of attempted murder, of which I was the victim.’

  ‘Listen, Jules, you’re on a losing streak. Don’t waste your breath, it makes my heart ache. You’re a good kid. Perhaps one day we’ll bump into one another and have a couple of drinks. But here we’re not on equal terms. You’re as innocent as a choirboy. They’ll make mincemeat out of you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter! But let me tell you one thing: Bob was a decent fellow. He had his own ideas about how to behave in the world. He couldn’t stand the sight of some people, but he was incapable of foul play. Get that clear.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘He could be. I have no idea. Or, if I do know something, it’s no one else’s business. Now, I’m telling you as a friend, drop it!

  ‘Do you get it? Drop it, Jules! I have nothing to say. I’ll say nothing. You’re out of your depth. Let’s say we’re both out of our depth.

  ‘I know nothing, I saw nothing, I heard nothing. The fifty grand? I’ll carry on repeating till the cows come home that I won it at the races.

  ‘As for getting out of here, we’ll see,
won’t we?’

  And so saying, he gave a strange little smirk.

  ‘Now, be a nice fellow and don’t give poor Lucile a hard time. She really loved her Bob. Do you get that? A girl can be on the game and love her man. Don’t torment her, and perhaps one day I’ll thank you. That’s all.’

  He had stood up and of his own accord was heading for the door.

  ‘Dédé!’ called Maigret, also rising.

  ‘That’s it. I’m keeping mum. You won’t get another word out of me.’

  Dédé opened the door and called the officers.

  ‘We’re done,’ he said with a leer.

  The sergeant asked Maigret:

  ‘Shall I bring you the woman?’

  Lucile refused to sit down but insisted on standing in front of the desk.

  ‘Do you know how Bob died?’

  She sighed:

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘He was murdered in a house in Rue Chaptal.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘He was the lover of another girl.’

  ‘I’m not jealous.’

  ‘Why won’t you talk?’

  ‘Because I have nothing to say.’

  ‘If you’d known that Bob was alive, you wouldn’t have been on your way to Belgium.’

  She clammed up.

  ‘Why don’t you want Bob to be avenged?’

  She bit her lip and looked away.

  ‘You prefer a fistful of money to seeing his killer put away?’

  ‘You have no right to say that.’

  ‘Then talk.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘What if I helped you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘Who have you seen since you’ve been here?’

  At last Maigret understood. The reason he had been kept waiting was not because the inspector was busy. The Criminal Records department upstairs had been in touch with Quai des Orfèvres.

  Had Dédé been photographed and his fingerprints taken? Had Lucile been given a medical examination? It was unlikely.

  But it was almost certain that someone had questioned them, someone from the Sûreté.

  By the time Maigret had arrived, at least an hour had elapsed since Le Bret had left Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

  It was hard to believe, and yet hadn’t Dédé himself hinted that Maigret was being taken for a ride?

  He left the room and had the feeling that they were laughing at him behind his back. The chief inspector returned just at that moment, as if by chance.

  ‘Well, my friend? Success? Did they talk?’

  ‘What are you planning to do with them?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’m awaiting orders.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From on high, as usual.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Maigret stepped into the street just as the skies opened. He felt so disillusioned that he was on the verge of handing in his notice.

  ‘You’re as innocent as a choirboy,’ Dédé had said to him with a touch of pity.

  He had so wanted to belong to this establishment, and now he was leaving demoralized, a feeling of disgust in the pit of his stomach.

  He walked into the Brasserie Dauphine, where there were a few officers from Quai des Orfèvres having a drink. He knew them by sight, but for them he was a nobody.

  First he took one of the pills the doctor had given him, in the hope that it would give him a boost, then he drank a large glass of spirits.

  He saw them sitting around a table, looking rather unkempt, very much at ease. Those men were entitled to go anywhere, they knew everything, they exchanged information on the cases they were working on.

  Did Maigret still want to be ‘one of the boys’? Was he not beginning to discover that his idea of the police was completely mistaken?

  After the second glass, he was on the point of going to see his protector, the big boss, Xavier Guichard, to tell him what was on his mind.

  They had made a fool of him. When Le Bret had come to visit him, he’d wormed information out of him. His car was waiting at the door. Most likely he’d told the driver to go straight to Quai des Orfèvres, where he would certainly not have been kept waiting.

  ‘My secretary is over-zealous. He’s going to put his foot in it and bring us trouble.’

  Who knows whether he went to his superiors, to the commissioner, for example, or even the minister of the interior?

  Perhaps the minister of the interior was also a regular dinner guest at Rue Chaptal?

  By now Maigret was convinced they had only allowed him to handle the case − warning him to be cautious − so that he would fall at the first hurdle.

  ‘You want to question Dédé? Why not? Go ahead, my boy.’

  Only beforehand, they’d had a word with the garage owner. Who knows what they’d promised him in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. It was easy. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in trouble. As for Lucile, if she didn’t keep quiet, they could always put her away for a spell in Saint-Lazare.

  ‘You’re as innocent as a choirboy.’

  He laughed nervously, because he really had been a choirboy back in his village.

  Everything had been tainted. His police force was tainted. He wasn’t just vexed that he had been robbed of his little success. It was something deeper; he felt more like a jilted lover.

  ‘Waiter!’

  He almost ordered a third drink, changed his mind, paid, and left with the feeling that the four others at their table were laughing at him behind his back.

  He realized that from now on everything would be rigged. What could he do? Go and find the flautist. Justin Minard was his only trump card: a flautist! It was because of him that Le Bret had launched an investigation in the first place.

  If Maigret got angry, they would claim that the blow to his head had affected his mind.

  He clambered on to a passing omnibus and stood sullenly on the platform, breathing in the wet-dog smell coming from his overcoat. He felt hot. Was he perhaps running a slight temperature?

  On reaching Rue Chaptal, he nearly turned back at the thought of Paumelle, the owner of the Vieux Calvados, who had been so patronizing towards him.

  Perhaps they were right after all? Perhaps he’d been mistaken, and wasn’t made of the right stuff for a career in the police?

  And yet he was so certain of what he would have done had he had a free hand! He would have searched every nook and cranny of that house, which he could see from the street. He would also have got to know the people who lived there. He would have discovered all their secrets, starting with the late elderly Balthazar and finishing with Lise Gendreau and Louis.

  The main thing was not to find out precisely what had happened on the night of the 15th − that was only an end. It would be easy to piece together their comings and goings once he knew each person’s inner thoughts.

  But the house was a stronghold whose gates were closed to him, just like the one on Avenue du Bois. People came racing to the rescue at the slightest alert. Dédé had suddenly clammed up and Lucile was resisting the urge to avenge her Bob.

  He realized that he had been talking to himself as he walked. He shrugged and flung open the door of the little restaurant.

  Justin was there, standing at the bar, holding a glass. He had taken Maigret’s place and was chatting to Paumelle, who showed no surprise at the sight of the newcomer.

  ‘The
same for me,’ Maigret ordered.

  The main door was wide open. The downpour was petering out and there was sunshine between the raindrops. The glistening pavement would be dry in no time.

  ‘I thought you’d be back,’ said Paumelle. ‘What baffles me is that you’re not with the other gentlemen.’

  Maigret wheeled round to look at Justin Minard, who hesitated. Eventually, he said:

  ‘There are a lot of people in the house. They arrived around half an hour ago.’

  There were no cars in the street. The visitors had probably arrived in cabs.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know them. It looks like a raid by the prosecutor’s office. There’s a gentleman with a white beard, accompanied by a young man, maybe the prosecutor and his clerk?’

  Clenching his glass, Maigret asked:

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘People I’ve never seen.’

  Justin tactfully did not say what he thought, and it was Paumelle who grumbled:

  ‘Colleagues of yours. Not from the local police station. From Quai des Orfèvres. I recognized one of them.’

  Poor Minard! He didn’t know where to look. He too felt as if he had been duped. Maigret had let him think that he was in charge of the case and the flautist had thrown himself body and soul into helping him.

  And now it transpired that Maigret was a nobody and that he wasn’t even being kept abreast of developments.

  Once again, Maigret was tempted to go home to write his furious letter of resignation then retire to bed. His head was burning and hurting with a stabbing pain. The owner was brandishing a bottle of calvados in mid-air, and Maigret nodded.

  Too bad! He’d been made a fool of from the start. They were right. He was an innocent.

  ‘Germaine is in the house,’ muttered Minard. ‘I spotted her at a window.’

  Naturally! Her too. She might not be very bright, but she had a certain intuition, like all women. She had realized that she had chosen the wrong side, that Maigret and his flautist were just pawns.