They walked home, arm in arm as usual, and the air was still quite warm. Even the smell of petrol did not seem so unpleasant tonight. It was part of the arrival of spring, just as the smell of melting tar heralds the arrival of summer.
In the morning, the sun was back again, and he ate his breakfast by the open window.
‘Funny thing,’ he remarked, ‘there are some women who go halfway across Paris by bus, just to buy their groceries.’
‘Perhaps that’s because of Telex-Consumers.’
He frowned inquiringly at his wife.
‘Every night, they tell you on television which neighbourhoods have the best prices for certain things.’
He hadn’t thought of that. How simple it was! He had wasted time on a little problem his wife had solved in an instant.
‘Thank you.’
‘Does that help?’
‘It helps me not to think any more about it.’
And, as he picked up his hat, he remarked philosophically:
‘You don’t always think about what you want to.’
The mail delivery was waiting on his desk and on top of the pile lay a thick brown envelope on which his name, title and the address at Quai des Orfèvres were printed in large capital letters.
He realized what it was before opening it. His wallet was being returned. And a few moments later, he discovered that nothing was missing, not the badge, nor his papers, nor the fifty francs.
There was nothing else. No message. No explanation.
He felt thoroughly vexed at this.
It was a little after eleven when the telephone rang.
‘Someone who’s insisting on speaking to you personally, sir, but is refusing to give his name. Apparently you’ll be expecting this call, and you’ll be furious if I don’t put it through. What shall I do?’
‘Put it through to me, then.’
And striking a match one-handed to relight his pipe:
‘Hello. I’m listening.’
There was a rather long silence, and Maigret would have thought he had been cut off if he had not heard breathing at the other end.
‘I’m listening,’ he repeated.
Another silence, then finally:
‘It’s me.’
A man’s voice, quite deep even, but the tone could have been that of a child hesitating to own up to some piece of mischief.
‘My wallet?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t know who I was?’
‘Of course not, if I had …’
‘So why are you telephoning?’
‘Because I need to see you.’
‘Come to my office, in that case.’
‘No, I don’t want to go to Quai des Orfèvres.’
‘Why not, are you already known here?’
‘No, never set foot there.’
‘So what are you afraid of, then?’
Since he could sense fear in this anonymous voice.
‘It’s personal.’
‘What’s personal?’
‘What I want to see you about. I thought of trying this when I read your name on the badge.’
‘Why did you steal my wallet?’
‘Because I needed money in a hurry.’
‘And now?’
‘I changed my mind. I’m not so sure. But you’d better come as soon as possible. Before I change my mind again.’
There was something unreal about this conversation and yet Maigret was taking it seriously.
‘Where are you?’
‘Will you come here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘Are you insisting on that?’
‘Our conversation has to remain private. Will you promise that?’
‘It depends.’
‘What on?’
‘On what you’re going to say.’
Another silence, this time seeming more ominous than the one at the start.
‘I want you to give me a chance. Remember it was me that phoned you. You don’t know me. You’ve no way of tracing me. If you don’t come, you’ll never know who I am. So on your part, that seems to call for …’
He couldn’t find the right word.
‘A promise?’ Maigret suggested.
‘Wait. I know what. When I’ve finished talking to you, you’ll give me five minutes to get away, if I ask.’
‘I can’t commit myself without knowing more. I’m an officer of the Police Judiciaire.’
‘If you believe me, there won’t be a problem. If you don’t believe me, or if you have any doubts, you could just manage to look the other way while I make myself scarce, then you can call your men.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Do you agree?’
‘Yes, I’m prepared to meet you.’
‘And you accept my conditions?’
‘I’ll be alone.’
‘But you won’t make any promises?’
‘No.’
It was impossible to do otherwise, and he waited with some anxiety to see how the other man would react. He must have been in a telephone kiosk on the street or in a café, because there was background noise.
‘Have you made up your mind?’ said Maigret, getting impatient.
‘As if I’ve got any choice! It’s what the newspapers say about you that makes me inclined to trust you. Are they true, all those stories?’
‘What stories?’
‘That you understand certain things that the police and the law courts don’t usually understand, and that in some cases, you’ve even …’
‘I’ve even what?’
‘Maybe I’m wrong to go on about it. I don’t know. Have you sometimes closed your eyes to something?’
Maigret preferred not to answer this.
‘Where are you?’
‘A long way from the Police Judiciaire. If I was to tell you now, you’d have time to get me arrested by the local inspectors. You could phone them quickly, and you already know what I look like.’
‘How do you know I saw you?’
‘I looked back. Our eyes met, you know that perfectly well. I was very scared.’
‘Because of the wallet?’
‘Not just because of that. Listen. Have someone drive you to the bar called Le Métro on the corner of Boulevard de Grenelle and Avenue de La Motte-Picquet. It’ll take you about half an hour. I’ll call you there. I won’t be far off and I’ll come and meet you right away.’
Maigret was opening his mouth to say something but the other man had hung up. He felt as intrigued as he was annoyed, since this was the first time a stranger had treated him so casually, not to say cynically.
Still, he couldn’t feel too angry. Throughout this quick-fire conversation, he had sensed an anguish, a desire to reach the right solution, a need to be face to face with the inspector who, in the stranger’s mind, was his only possible saviour.
Because he had stolen Maigret’s wallet, without knowing who he was!
‘Janvier! Is there a car downstairs? I need you to drive me over to the Grenelle neighbourhood.’
Janvier was surprised, since no case on hand, just then, had anything to do with that district.
‘It’s a personal meeting, with the man who stole my wallet.’
‘Traced, then?’
‘The wallet, yes, it arrived by post this morning.’
‘With your badge inside? That’s surprising, you might think someone would want to keep it as a souvenir.’
‘No, the badge was there, as well as my papers and the money …’
‘A practical joke, then?’
‘No, on the contrary, I think it’s very serious. My pickpocket has phoned me to say he’s waiting to see me.’
‘Should I come with you?’
‘Come as far as Boulevard de Grenelle. After that, you’ll have to disappear, because he wants to see me on my own.’
They drove along the Seine as far as the Pont de Bir-Hakeim and Maigret, without speaking, was content simply to watch
the river slipping by. There were building works everywhere, demolition sites, barriers, as there had been the first year he had arrived in Paris. It seemed to start all over again each ten to fifteen years, every time Paris felt it was bursting out of its straitjacket.
‘Where shall I drop you off?’
‘Here.’
They were on the corner of Boulevard de Grenelle and Rue Saint-Charles.
‘Shall I wait for you?’
‘Wait half an hour. If I’m not back here by then, you can go to the office or for lunch.’
Janvier was intrigued as well, and it was with a curious expression that he watched the inspector’s bulky figure walk away.
The sun was shining directly on to the pavement where gusts of warmth and cooler breaths alternated, as if the air had not been able to make up its mind that it was springtime.
A little girl was selling violets in front of a restaurant. Maigret could see in the distance the corner bar with its sign ‘Le Métro’, which would light up at night. An ordinary-looking café, without any particular character, one of those bars combined with a tobacconist’s where you might go in for a packet of cigarettes, to have a drink at the counter, or perhaps to sit at a table if you had arranged to meet someone.
He looked round the interior where no more than twenty café tables were ranged either side of the counter, most of them unoccupied.
The pickpocket of yesterday was not there, of course. The inspector went to sit in the back, near a window, and ordered a draught beer.
In spite of himself, he kept an eye on the door, noticing anyone who approached, pushed it open, and came up to the till, behind which there were shelves full of cigarette packets.
He was starting to wonder whether he had been naive when he recognized a silhouette on the pavement, and then a face. The man did not look at him but went straight up to the counter, leaned on it and ordered:
‘A rum.’
He was nervous. His hands were moving all the time. He dared not turn round and showed impatience to be served, as if he urgently needed the alcohol.
Grabbing his glass, he signalled to the waiter not to put the bottle back in its place.
‘Same again.’
This time, he did turn towards Maigret. He had known before coming in exactly where the inspector was sitting. He must have been spying on him from outside, or from the window of a nearby house.
He looked apologetic, as if he had had no choice, and had come as soon as he could. With his still trembling hands, he counted out some small change on to the bar.
At last, he moved forwards, took hold of a chair and collapsed into it.
‘Have you got any cigarettes?’
‘No, I only smoke a—’
‘A pipe, yes I know. I don’t have any cigarettes left, and I’ve run out of money.’
‘Waiter! A packet of – what kind do you like?’
‘Gauloises.’
‘A packet of Gauloises and a glass of rum.’
‘No, no more rum, it’ll make me feel sick.’
‘A beer, then?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t eaten anything this morning …’
‘A sandwich?’
There were several plates of sandwiches on the counter.
‘Not just now. I feel like I’m choking. You can’t understand …’
He was quite well dressed: grey flannel trousers and a checked sports jacket.
Like many young men, he was wearing a polo-neck sweater, rather than a shirt and tie.
‘I don’t know if you’re quite what I was expecting from your reputation.’
He was not looking Maigret in the face, but darting quick glances at him before staring down at the floor once more. It was tiring to follow the constant movement of his long, thin fingers.
‘You weren’t surprised to get the wallet back?’
‘After thirty years in the police, not much surprises me.’
‘With the money still inside it?’
‘You desperately needed cash, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much did you have in your pocket, then?’
‘About ten francs.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘I didn’t sleep anywhere. I didn’t eat either. I spent the ten francs on drink. You just saw me use up the last few coins. It wasn’t enough to get drunk on.’
‘But you live in Paris,’ Maigret remarked.
‘How do you know that?’
‘And indeed, in this district.’
They had no immediate neighbours and were speaking in low voices. The door of the café could be heard opening and shutting, almost always for customers buying tobacco or matches.
‘But you didn’t go home.’
The young man was silent for a moment, as he had been on the telephone. He looked pale and exhausted. Evidently, he was making a desperate effort to respond and, full of suspicion, he was trying to foresee any traps that might be laid for him.
‘Just as I thought,’ he muttered finally.
‘What did you think?’
‘That you’d guess, you’d be more or less right, and once I was hooked …’
‘Go on.’
He suddenly became angry and raised his voice, forgetting he was in a public place.
‘And once I was hooked, I’d be done for, wouldn’t I!’
He looked towards the door, which happened to be opening just then, and for a moment Maigret thought he was going to run away again. He must have been tempted. There had been a quick flash in his dark brown eyes. Then he reached out for the glass of beer, and drank it off in a single gulp, all the while observing the inspector over the top of the glass, as if judging him.
‘Better now?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Let’s get back to the wallet.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that was what made you telephone me.’
‘There wasn’t enough in it anyway.’
‘Enough money? What for?’
‘To get away … To go somewhere else, anywhere, Belgium, Spain …’
And then, looking suspicious again:
‘You did come on your own, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t drive. One of my inspectors brought me over here and he’s waiting for me at the corner of Rue Saint-Charles.’
The man raised his head suddenly.
‘You’ve identified me?’
‘No, your photo isn’t on file.’
‘But you did look?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the wallet, but especially because of my badge.’
‘Why did you stop at the corner of Rue Saint-Charles?’
‘Because it’s near here, and it was on our way.’
‘You haven’t had a report?’
‘What about?’
‘About an incident in Rue Saint-Charles?’
Maigret found it hard to follow the expressions succeeding one another on the young man’s face. Rarely had he come across anyone so anxious, so anguished, clinging obstinately on to heaven only knew what hope.
He was afraid, that was clear. But of what?
‘The police station here didn’t contact you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you swear it?’
‘The only time I swear is in the witness box.’
The young man seemed to want to drill into him with his eyes.
‘Why do you think I asked you to come?’
‘Because you need me.’
‘And why do I need you?’
‘Because you’re in some kind of trouble and you don’t know how to get out of it.’
‘That’s not true.’
The voice was firm. The unknown young man lifted up his head, as if relieved.
‘It’s not me that’s in trouble, and I’ll swear that, in court or anywhere else. I’m innocent, do you hear me?’
‘Not so loud.’
He looked
round. A young woman was applying lipstick while peering in a mirror, then turning towards the street in the hope of seeing the man she was waiting for. Two middle-aged men, leaning their heads together over a table, were talking in low voices and, from the few words he guessed at rather than heard, Maigret gathered the subject was horse-racing.
‘Well, tell me who you are, and what it is you say you’re innocent of.’
‘Not here. Not now.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Back at my place. Can I have another beer? I’ll be able to pay you back, soon, unless …’
‘Unless?’
‘Unless, her bag … Anyway … a beer?’
‘Waiter! Two beers. And the bill.’
The young man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that was still quite clean.
‘You’re twenty-four?’ the inspector asked him.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘So how long have you lived in Paris?’
‘Five years.’
‘Married?’
He was avoiding asking questions that were too personal and intimate.
‘I was. Why do you ask?’
‘You don’t wear a wedding ring.’
‘Because when I got married, I couldn’t afford one.’
He lit another cigarette. He had smoked the first with long, deep pulls, and only now was he appreciating the taste of tobacco.
‘So all the precautions I took didn’t work.’
‘What precautions?’
‘About you. You’ve got your hands on me, whatever I do. Even if I tried to run off, now you’ve seen me close up, and you know I live nearby.’
He was smiling ironically, the bitter irony addressed to himself.
‘I always overdo things. Is your inspector in the car still on the corner of Rue Saint-Charles?’
Maigret looked at the electric clock on the wall. Three minutes to midday.
‘Either he’s just left or he will be leaving any minute, because I asked him to wait half an hour and, if I wasn’t back, to go for lunch.’
‘It doesn’t matter, though, does it?’
Maigret did not reply and when his companion rose to go, he followed. They went together towards Rue Saint-Charles, at the corner of which there was a fairly new modern building. They crossed over, turned down the street and walked only about thirty metres further.
The man had stopped in the middle of the pavement, opposite a wide carriage door giving on to the courtyard of the large apartment block that went through to Boulevard de Grenelle; cycles and babies’ prams were stored under an archway.
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