Maigret and the Minister

by Georges Simenon

  The words ‘Calame Report’ sounded almost comical and Maigret smiled as he asked:

  ‘Who is Calame?’

  But Point was not smiling. Emptying his pipe into the huge copper ashtray, he explained:

  ‘A professor at the École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées. He died two years ago, of cancer if I’m not mistaken. The public hasn’t heard of him, but he’s famous in the world of applied mechanics and civil engineering. Calame was sometimes brought in as a consultant on major projects, in countries as far afield as Japan and South America, and he was a leading authority on materials resistance, especially concrete. He wrote a book that neither you nor I have read but which all architects have, entitled The Diseases of Concrete.’

  ‘Was Calame involved in the Clairfond project?’

  ‘Indirectly. Let me tell you the story another way, according to a more personal sequence of events. At the time of the disaster, as I told you, I knew nothing of the sanatorium other than what I’d read in the newspapers. I couldn’t even remember whether I’d voted for or against the project five years earlier. I had to check in L’Officiel to find that I’d voted for it. I don’t read La Rumeur either. It was only after the second short item that the president of the Council took me aside and asked:

  ‘ “Are you familiar with the Calame Report?”

  ‘I was honest with him and said no. He seemed surprised and I felt he looked at me with some mistrust.

  ‘ “Well, it must be among your files,” he said.

  ‘Then he put me in the picture. During the debates on the Clairfond issue five years ago, since the parliamentary committee was divided, a deputy – I don’t know who – proposed commissioning a report from an engineer of unquestionable integrity.

  ‘He suggested Professor Julien Calame, of the École des Ponts et Chaussées, and Calame spent a while examining the plans and even visited the site in Haute-Savoie.

  ‘Then he wrote a report which should have been passed on to the committee.’

  Maigret believed he had understood.

  ‘Was the report damning?’

  ‘Wait. When the president spoke to me about the affair, he had already ordered a search through the parliamentary archives. The report should have been among the committee’s files. But not only is it not there, some of the minutes of the meetings have also disappeared.

  ‘Do you see what that means?’

  ‘That there are certain people who have a vested interest in that report never being published?’

  ‘Read this.’

  It was another cutting from La Rumeur, also short, but no less threatening:

  Will Monsieur Arthur Nicoud be powerful enough to prevent the Calame Report from seeing the light of day?

  Maigret knew that name as he knew hundreds of others. He had heard of the firm Nicoud & Sauvegrain, because their name cropped up almost everywhere there were public works – roads, bridges or locks.

  ‘It’s Nicoud & Sauvegrain that built Clairfond.’

  Maigret began to wish he hadn’t come. While he felt a natural sympathy for Auguste Point, the story that the minister was telling him made him feel as ill at ease as when he heard smutty stories being told in front of a woman.

  He couldn’t help trying to guess the role that Point might have played in the tragedy that had cost the lives of 128 children. He was on the verge of asking him outright:

  ‘What is your part in all this?’

  He guessed that a lot of people were implicated – politicians, prominent figures perhaps.

  ‘I shall try to be brief. The president asked me to undertake a painstaking search through the archives of my ministry. The École des Ponts et Chaussées comes directly under the Ministry of Public Works. Logically, we should have at the very least a copy of the Calame Report somewhere in our files.’

  The famous words came back: Calame Report.

  ‘You didn’t find anything?’

  ‘Nothing. We rummaged through tons of dusty papers, even in the attics.’

  Uncomfortable in his armchair, Maigret was beginning to fidget, and Point noticed.

  ‘You don’t like politics?’

  ‘I admit it.’

  ‘Neither do I. Strange as that may seem, the reason I agreed to stand for election twelve years ago was to fight against politics. And when I was invited to become a member of the cabinet three months ago, again it was with the intention of cleaning up public affairs that I allowed myself to be persuaded. My wife and I are simple people. As you can see from our Paris home, where we’ve been staying when parliament is in session ever since I was elected a deputy. It’s more of a bachelor pad. My wife could have stayed in La Roche-sur-Yon, where we have our house, but we’re not used to being apart.’

  He spoke matter-of-factly, without any sentimentality in his voice.

  ‘Since I’ve been a minister our official home has been in the ministry, on Boulevard Saint-Germain, but we escape here as often as we can, especially on Sundays.

  ‘But none of this matters. If I called from a public telephone booth, as your wife must have told you – because, unless I’m mistaken, your wife is very much like mine – if I called you from a public telephone booth, as I was saying, it is because I’m wary of phone-tapping. Rightly or wrongly, I am convinced that my calls from the ministry, perhaps those from this apartment too, are being recorded somewhere, I’d rather not know where. What’s more, I’m not too proud to confess that on the way here I entered a cinema on the Boulevards via one door and exited via another, and switched taxis twice. I still couldn’t swear that the building isn’t under surveillance.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone when I arrived.’

  Now Maigret felt a sort of pity. Until now, Point had tried to speak in a detached tone. But on getting down to the main issue, he hummed and hawed and beat around the bush as if he were afraid that Maigret would get the wrong idea about him.

  ‘The ministry’s archives were turned upside down and goodness knows there is plenty of paperwork there which no living person has any recollection of. Twice a day at least during that time I received a phone call from the president, and I am not sure he trusts me.

  ‘We combed through the archives of the École des Ponts et Chaussées as well without any luck until yesterday morning.’

  Maigret couldn’t help asking, as at the end of a novel:

  ‘And did you find the Calame Report?’

  ‘Something that appears to be the Calame Report, in any case.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In an attic at the École.’

  ‘A teacher?’

  ‘A supervisor. Yesterday afternoon, I was given a note from a certain Piquemal, whom I had never heard of, on which was written in pencil: “In connection with the Calame Report”. I sent for him straight away. I took the precaution of asking my secretary, Mademoiselle Blanche, to leave, even though she’s been with me for twenty years, because she’s from La Roche-sur-Yon and used to work in my legal practice. You’ll understand why that means something. My principal private secretary wasn’t in the room either. I was alone with a middle-aged man with a fixed gaze, who stood before me without saying a word, a package wrapped in grey paper under his arm.

  ‘ “Monsieur Piquemal?” I asked, slightly anxious because for a moment I thought I was dealing with a madman.

  ‘He nodded.

  ‘ “Have a seat.”

  ‘ “There’s no point.”

  ‘I had the sense that there was no kindness in his eyes.

  ‘He asked me, almost rudely:

  ‘ “Are you the minister?”

  ‘ “Yes.”

  ‘ “I’m a supervisor at the École des Ponts et Chaussées.”

  ‘He took a couple of steps forwards and held out the package, saying in the same tone:

  ‘ “Open it and give me a receipt.”

  ‘The package contained a document of about forty pages, which was obviously a carbon copy: “Report on the Construction of a Sanatorium in the
Village of Clairfond, Haute-Savoie”.

  ‘The document wasn’t signed, but Julien Calame’s name and position were typed on the last page, with the date.

  ‘Still standing, Piquemal repeated:

  ‘ “I want a receipt.”

  ‘I wrote him one by hand. He folded it and slipped it into a shabby wallet, and made for the door. I called him back.

  ‘ “Where did you find those papers?”

  ‘ “In the attic.”

  ‘ “You will probably be asked to make a written statement.”

  ‘ “You know where to find me.”

  ‘ “You haven’t shown this document to anyone?”

  ‘He looked me in the eyes with contempt:

  ‘ “No one.”

  ‘ “There weren’t any other copies?”

  ‘ “Not that I’m aware of.”

  ‘ “Thank you.” ’

  Point looked at him, embarrassed.

  ‘That’s where I made a mistake,’ he went on. ‘I think it was because of the strangeness of this Piquemal, because I can picture an anarchist behaving in the same way when throwing a bomb.’

  ‘How old?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘Forty-five, perhaps. Neither well nor badly dressed. His stare is that of a madman or a fanatic.’

  ‘Did you check up on him?’

  ‘Not at the time. It was five p.m. There were still four or five people in my waiting room, and that evening I had to preside over an engineers’ dinner. Knowing that my visitor had left, my secretary came back and I slipped the Calame file into my personal briefcase.

  ‘I should have telephoned the president of the Council. If I didn’t, I swear to you, it was, once again, because I wondered whether Piquemal was mad. There was no proof that the document was genuine. Almost every day we receive visits from people who are mentally unbalanced.’

  ‘So do we.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll understand. My meetings went on until seven p.m. I just had the time to nip into my apartment and get changed for dinner.’

  ‘Did you mention the Calame Report to your wife?’

  ‘No. I took my briefcase with me. I told her that after the dinner I’d drop into Boulevard Pasteur. I do that quite often. Not only do we come here together on Sundays for a little dinner that she cooks for just the two of us, but also I come here on my own when I have important work to do and I need peace and quiet.’

  ‘Where was the dinner?’

  ‘At the Palais d’Orsay.’

  ‘Did you take the briefcase with you?’

  ‘I left it locked in the car in the care of my driver, whom I trust absolutely.’

  ‘Did you return here immediately afterwards?’

  ‘At around 10.30. Ministers are lucky enough not to have to stay after the speech.’

  ‘Were you in a dinner jacket?’

  ‘I took it off to sit down at my desk.’

  ‘Did you read the report?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did it seem authentic?’

  The minister nodded.

  ‘Would it really be a bombshell if it were published?’

  ‘There’s no doubt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Professor Calame virtually foresaw the disaster. Even though I’m in charge of public works, I’m not capable of explaining his reasoning, particularly the technical details he gives in support of his argument. The fact is that he took a clear, unquestionable stance against the project, and it was the duty of anyone having read the report to vote against the building of Clairfond as it was envisaged, or at least to demand an additional study. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’m beginning to.’

  ‘How La Rumeur found out about the document, I have no idea. Do they have a copy? I don’t know that either. As far as I am aware, the only person in possession of a copy of the Calame Report last night was myself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Around midnight, I telephoned the president of the Council, but I was told he was at a political meeting in Rouen. I nearly called him there …’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘No. Because I was worried about the phone being tapped. I felt as if I had a box of dynamite here capable not only of blowing up the government but of bringing a number of my colleagues into disrepute. It is impossible that those who read the report could have insisted on …’

  Maigret thought he could guess the rest.

  ‘Did you leave the report in this apartment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the study?’

  ‘It has a lock. I thought it was safer here than at the ministry, where too many people I barely know pass through.’

  ‘Was your driver waiting downstairs all the time you were reading the report?’

  ‘I’d sent him home. I took a taxi at the corner of the street.’

  ‘Did you talk to your wife when you got home?’

  ‘Not about the Calame Report. I didn’t breathe a word about it to anyone until the next day, at one p.m, when I met the president at the Chamber. I informed him in a window recess.’

  ‘Did he seem worried?’

  ‘I think he was. Any government leader would have been. He asked me to fetch the report and bring it to him in person to his office.’

  ‘And the report had gone from your study?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had the lock been forced?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did you see the president again?’

  ‘No. I felt genuinely ill. I had a driver take me to Boulevard Saint-Germain and I postponed all my meetings. My wife telephoned the president and told him I was unwell, that I’d fainted, and that I’d go and see him tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Does your wife know?’

  ‘For the first time in my life I lied to her. I don’t know exactly what I told her, and I must have broken off several times.’

  ‘Does she know you’re here?’

  ‘She thinks I’m at a meeting. I wonder whether you understand my predicament. I find myself suddenly alone, with the feeling that the moment I open my mouth, everyone will attack me. No one will believe my story. I had the Calame Report in my hands. I am the only person, apart from Piquemal, to have held it. Worse still, on at least three occasions in the past few years I’ve been the guest of Arthur Nicoud, of the engineering firm in question, at his estate in Samois.’

  He suddenly flagged. His shoulders became less broad, his chin dropped. He seemed to be saying: ‘Do what you like. I don’t know any more.’

  Without asking permission, Maigret poured himself a brandy and only after raising it to his lips did it occur to him to refill the minister’s glass.

  2. The Telephone Call from the President

  He had probably experienced this feeling before during his career, but never as intensely, it seemed to him. The cramped room, its warmth, its snugness, all helped create this impression, along with the smell of fruit brandy, the desk that reminded him of his father’s, the enlarged photos of the parents on the walls: Maigret really felt like a doctor called out in an emergency and in whose hands the patient has placed his fate.

  The strangest thing was that the man opposite him, who looked as if he were waiting for his diagnosis, resembled him, if not like a brother, at least like a cousin. The likeness was not just physical. A glance at the family portraits told Maigret that he and Point had very similar backgrounds. They both came from provincial families of peasant stock who had gone up in the world. The minister’s parents, like Maigret’s, had probably had the ambition for their son to be a doctor or a lawyer from the minute he was born.

  Point had surpassed their hopes. Were they still alive to know it?

  He did not dare ask those questions right away. Before him was a man who had gone to pieces, and he could tell it was not out of weakness. Looking at him, Maigret felt a complex emotion, a mixture of disgust and anger, and also of despondency.

  Once, he had found himself in a similar sit
uation, although less dramatic, and that too had been linked to a political affair. He had been in no way to blame. He had acted exactly as he should have done, had behaved not only with integrity but in strict accordance with his duty as a public servant.

  He had still been thought wrong in the eyes of all, or nearly all. He had had to face a disciplinary hearing and, since everything was against him, they had no option but to find him guilty.

  It was at that time that he had briefly left the Police Judiciaire and been exiled for a year to the Flying Squad in Luçon, in Vendée, the region that Point represented in parliament.

  As his wife and friends kept telling him, his conscience was clear, and yet, sometimes, without realizing it, he would behave as if guilty. During those final days at the Police Judiciaire, for example, while his case was being discussed in high places, he no longer dared give orders to his subordinates, not even to Lucas or Janvier, and, when he came down the main staircase, he skulked close to the walls.

  Point was unable to think clearly about his own case. He had just said everything he had to say. In the past few hours, he had behaved like a drowning man whose only hope lay in a miraculous rescue.

  Was it not strange that he had appealed to Maigret, whom he did not know and had never seen?

  Instinctively, Maigret took him in hand, and his questions were like those of a doctor seeking to make his diagnosis.

  ‘Did you check Piquemal’s identity?’

  ‘I had my secretary telephone the École des Ponts et Chaussées and they confirmed that Jules Piquemal has worked there as a supervisor for fifteen years.’

  ‘Is it not strange that instead of handing the document to the dean he brought it to your office in person?’

  ‘I don’t know. That didn’t occur to me.’

  ‘That seems to suggest that he was aware of its importance, does it not?’

  ‘I think so. Yes.’

  ‘In short, since the discovery of the Calame Report, Piquemal and you are the only people who have had the chance to read it.’

  ‘Apart from whoever has it in their hands right now.’

  ‘Let’s not worry about that for the moment. Unless I’m mistaken, only one person apart from Piquemal knew, from Tuesday at around one o’clock, that you were in possession of the document?’