Maigret and the Minister

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Is this our case?’ grunted Janvier, pulling a face.

  ‘Correct.’

  He opened his mouth, probably to ask how come Maigret was handling such a sleazy political affair. He said nothing. They could see Lucas crossing the square dragging his left foot a little as usual. He didn’t stop at the bar but came and sat facing the two men with a disgruntled look, and mopped his face.

  Pointing to the newspaper, he said in a reproachful voice, which he never used in front of Maigret:

  ‘I’ve just read it.’

  And Maigret felt slightly guilty vis-à-vis his two colleagues. Lapointe too must have realized by now what it was all about.

  ‘A beer?’ suggested Maigret.

  ‘No. A Pernod.’

  And that too was out of character for Lucas. They waited for the drinks to be served, and then continued in hushed tones.

  ‘I suppose you keep bumping into the big boys from Rue des Saussaies?’

  That was how they referred to the squad from the Sûreté Générale.

  ‘You could have advised me to be discreet!’ complained Lucas. ‘If it’s a question of beating them to it, I should warn you they’ve got a head start on us.’

  ‘Tell us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you did.’

  ‘I started by strolling down Boulevard Saint-Germain, where I arrived a few moments after Janvier.’

  ‘Rougier?’ asked the latter, who couldn’t help smiling at the funny side of the situation.

  ‘He was standing in the middle of the pavement and saw me coming. I acted as if I was just passing and in a hurry. He called out to me, laughing:

  ‘ “Are you looking for Janvier? He’s just turned into Rue de Solférino.”

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to be jeered at by someone from the Sûreté.

  ‘Because I wasn’t able to inquire about Jacques Fleury in the vicinity of the ministry, I—’

  ‘You looked him up in the telephone directory?’ asked Janvier.

  ‘That didn’t occur to me. Knowing that he frequents the bars on the Champs-Élysées, I went to Fouquet’s.’

  ‘I bet he’s in the phone book.’

  ‘It’s possible. Will you let me finish?’

  Janvier was in a playful mood now, sneering like someone who has just been scalded and wants to see someone else suffer in turn.

  In other words, all three of them, Maigret as well as his two colleagues, were on unfamiliar territory. They all felt equally awkward, and had no difficulty imagining the jibes of their counterparts in the Sûreté.

  ‘I had a chat with the barman. Everybody knows Fleury. Most of the time he racks up a huge tab and when the total gets too high, they won’t serve him any more. Then he disappears for a few days, until he’s run out of credit in all the bars and restaurants.’

  ‘Does he pay in the end?’

  ‘One fine evening he comes back looking all exuberant and pays his bill with a nonchalant air.’

  ‘Then the same thing happens all over again?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been going on for years.’

  ‘Since he’s been at the ministry too?’

  ‘Except that now he’s private secretary and is assumed to be influential, so there are more people buying him drinks and inviting him to dinner. Before that, he would sometimes vanish from the scene for months. Once, he was seen working at Les Halles, counting cabbages being unloaded from the trucks.’

  Janvier shot Maigret a knowing look.

  ‘He has a wife and two children, somewhere near Vanves. He’s supposed to send them enough to live on. Luckily, his wife has a job, something like a housekeeper for an elderly gentleman who lives on his own. The children work too.’

  ‘Who does he hang around the bars with?’

  ‘For a long time he was seen with a woman in her forties, a buxom brunette apparently, known as Marcelle and whom he seemed to be in love with. Rumour has it he found her at the till of a brasserie in the Porte Saint-Martin district. No one knows what’s become of her. For just over a year he’s been with a certain Jacqueline Page and lives with her in an apartment in Rue Washington, above an Italian delicatessen.

  ‘Jacqueline Page is twenty-three and sometimes works as a film extra. She tries to wangle introductions to all the producers, directors and actors who are regulars at Fouquet’s and is generous with her favours.’

  ‘Is Fleury in love with her?’

  ‘He seems to be.’

  ‘Is he jealous?’

  ‘So they say. Only he doesn’t dare object, pretends to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘I thought it was a good idea to pay a visit to Rue Washington.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I didn’t need to tell her anything. The minute she opened the door, she exclaimed: “Another one!” ’

  Janvier and Maigret couldn’t help exchanging a smile.

  ‘Another what?’ asked Maigret, who already knew the answer.

  ‘Policeman, as you know very well. Two had been there before me.’

  ‘Separately?’

  ‘Together.’

  ‘Did they question her about Fleury?’

  ‘They asked her if he sometimes worked at night and whether he brought papers home from the ministry.’

  ‘What did she reply?’

  ‘That they had better things to do at night. She’s a woman who’s never at a loss for words. Funnily enough, her mother is a chair attendant in the Picpus church.’

  ‘Did they search the apartment?’

  ‘They just glanced around. You can’t really call it an apartment. It’s more like a base. They only use the kitchen to make coffee in the morning. The other rooms, a sitting room, a bedroom and what should be the dining room, are untidy, with shoes and women’s underwear strewn all over the place, and magazines, records and trashy novels, not to mention bottles and glasses.’

  ‘Does Jacqueline see him at lunchtime?’

  ‘Rarely. Most days she stays in bed until mid-afternoon. From time to time he telephones her in the morning to ask her to meet him at a restaurant.’

  ‘Do they have many friends?’

  ‘The people who go to the same clubs.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  For the first time, there was an almost pathetic reproach in Lucas’ voice when he replied:

  ‘No, it’s not all! You instructed me to find out as much as possible. First of all, I have a list of a dozen of Jacqueline’s former lovers, including some she still sees.’

  With a look of disgust, he placed a list of names written in pencil on the table.

  ‘You will notice that it includes the names of two politicians. Then, I almost managed to find Marcelle.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By pounding the pavements. I went to every brasserie on the Grands Boulevards, starting at Opéra. Of course, the last one was where I struck lucky, Place de la République.’

  ‘Has Marcelle gone back to working at the till there?’

  ‘No, but they remember her and she’s been seen in the neighbourhood. The owner of the brasserie thinks she lives nearby, around Rue Blondel. Since he’s often bumped into her in Rue du Croissant, he has the impression that she’s working for a newspaper or at a print works.’

  ‘Did you check?’

  ‘Not yet. Should I?’

  His tone was such that Maigret muttered, half in jest:

  ‘Annoyed?’

  Lucas attempted to smile.

  ‘No. But you’ve got to admit it’s a strange job. Especially when you find out afterwards from the papers that it’s to do with that nasty business! If I have to carry on, I’ll carry on. But to be honest with you …’

  ‘Do you think I’m enjoying this any more than you are?’

  ‘No. I know.’

  ‘Rue du Croissant isn’t very long. Everyone knows one another in that world.’

  ‘And once again I’m going to turn up after the boys from t
he Sûreté.’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Fine! I’ll go. Can I have another?’

  He held out his glass, which he had just drained. Maigret signalled to the waiter to bring another round and, at the last minute, ordered a Pernod for himself instead of a beer.

  Inspectors from other departments who had finished for the day came in for a drink at the bar, greeting them with a wave. Maigret, his expression becoming gloomy, thought of Auguste Point, who must have read the article and be waiting for his name to appear in the headlines too, any minute now.

  His wife, whom he had probably put in the picture, was just as anxious as he was. Had he spoken to Mademoiselle Blanche? Were the three of them aware of all the covert work going on around them?

  ‘What do I do?’ asked Janvier in the tone of someone disgusted by the job but resigned to it.

  ‘Have you got the heart to watch Rue Vaneau?’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘No. I’ll send Torrence or someone to relieve you at around eleven.’

  ‘Do you have a hunch that something’s going to happen there?’

  Maigret confessed:

  ‘No.’

  He didn’t have the least idea. Or rather, he had lots, so tangled that he couldn’t think straight.

  It was essential to keep to the simplest facts, those that could be checked.

  One certainty was that on the Monday afternoon, the Piquemal individual had appeared at the office of the minister of public works. He must have spoken to the clerk on duty and filled in a form. Maigret hadn’t seen it, but it would have been filed; Point wouldn’t have fabricated this visit.

  Two people at least who were in adjacent offices were likely to have overheard the conversation: Mademoiselle Blanche and Jacques Fleury.

  The same thing had occurred to the Sûreté, because they had gone to their homes to investigate.

  Had Piquemal really handed over the Calame Report to Auguste Point?

  It seemed implausible to Maigret that he would have concocted the entire thing, which would have made no sense.

  Point had gone to his private apartment on Boulevard Pasteur and had left the document there, in his study. That too Maigret believed was true.

  So the person who had broken into Mademoiselle Blanche’s the following morning and searched her lodgings wasn’t sure where the report was.

  But by the afternoon, the document had vanished.

  On the Wednesday morning, Piquemal too had disappeared.

  Meanwhile, for the first time, Joseph Mascoulin’s newspaper had written about the Calame Report and openly asked who secretly had the document.

  Maigret started moving his lips and muttering, as if talking to himself.

  ‘It has to be one or the other: either someone stole the report so as to destroy it, or they stole it to make use of it. So far, apparently, no one has made use of it.’

  Lucas and Janvier listened in silence.

  ‘Unless …’

  He slowly drank half of his Pernod and wiped his mouth.

  ‘It looks complicated, but in politics things are rarely straightforward. Only one or two of the people compromised by the Clairfond affair have anything to gain by destroying the document. So, if it emerges that it has disappeared again, after having resurfaced for a few hours, suspicion will automatically fall on them.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ mumbled Janvier.

  ‘At least thirty politicians, not counting Nicoud himself, risk being embroiled in scandal or worse in this affair. If they can focus suspicion on one individual, fabricate evidence against him, and if that individual is vulnerable, then they have the perfect scapegoat. Auguste Point is defenceless.’

  His two colleagues stared at him in amazement. Maigret had forgotten that they only knew half of the details of the case. Things had now gone beyond the stage where it was possible to conceal anything from them.

  ‘He was one of Nicoud’s guests at Samois,’ he said. ‘The entrepreneur gave Point’s daughter a gold pen.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Is he the one who …?’

  Lucas didn’t finish his question. Maigret had understood. He had wanted to ask:

  ‘Is he the one who asked you to help him?’

  That finally dispelled the awkwardness that had been hanging over the three men.

  ‘It’s him, yes. Right now, I’d be surprised if others haven’t found out.’

  ‘We don’t have to hide any more?’

  ‘In any case, not from the Sûreté.’

  They lingered over their drinks for another quarter of an hour. Maigret was the first to rise. He said goodbye and dropped into his office, just in case. There was nothing for him. Point hadn’t telephoned, nor had anyone else involved in the Clairfond affair.

  At dinner, Madame Maigret gathered from his expression that it was best not to ask any questions. He spent the evening reading an international police journal and, at ten o’clock, went to bed.

  ‘Have you got a lot of work?’

  They were about to go to sleep. The question had been on the tip of her tongue for some time.

  ‘Not a lot, but it’s ugly.’

  Twice he nearly reached for the telephone to call Auguste Point. He had no idea what he would have said to him, but he would have liked to have made contact with him.

  He got up at eight o’clock. Behind the curtains there was a light mist that pressed up against the windows and seemed to muffle the sounds from the street. He walked to the corner of Boulevard Richard-Lenoir to catch his bus and paused by the newspaper kiosk.

  The bombshell had exploded. The papers weren’t asking any more questions, but the banner headlines trumpeted:

  Clairfond Affair

  Disappearance of Jules Piquemal

  who found the Calame Report.

  The report, handed over to the authorities,

  is also alleged to have disappeared.

  The newspapers under his arm, he clambered on to the bus and didn’t try to read any more until he arrived at Quai des Orfèvres.

  As he walked down the corridor, he could hear the telephone ringing in his office. He hastened his step and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’ asked the operator. ‘This is the third time in fifteen minutes that there’s been a call for you from the Ministry of Public Works. Shall I put you through?’

  He was still wearing his hat and overcoat, slightly damp from the fog.

  5. The Professor’s Scruples

  He sounded like a man who has not slept all night, or the previous nights, and who can no longer be bothered to choose his words because he is beyond the point of worrying about the effect he produces. That flat tone of voice devoid of emphasis or energy is equivalent in a man to a woman crying with her mouth open, not caring that her tears are making her ugly and elicit no sympathy.

  ‘Can you come and see me right now, Maigret? Given the state of affairs, there is no reason for you to avoid Boulevard Saint-Germain unless you have any personal objection to coming here. Let me warn you that the waiting room is heaving with journalists and the phone is ringing nonstop. I promised them a press conference at eleven o’clock.’

  Maigret looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ll be there straight away.’

  There was a knock at the door. Young Lapointe entered while Maigret was still holding the receiver, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Have you got something to tell me?’

  ‘News, yes.’

  ‘Important?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Put your hat on and come with me. You can tell me on the way.’

  He paused for a moment in front of the clerk to ask him to inform the chief that he wouldn’t be attending the morning briefing. In the courtyard, he went over to one of the little black cars belonging to the Police Judiciaire.

  ‘Take the wheel.’

  And, as they were driving along the embankment:
<
br />   ‘Tell me quickly.’

  ‘I spent the night at the Hôtel du Berry, in the room I rented.’

  ‘Piquemal didn’t reappear?’

  ‘No. Someone from the Sûreté was posted in the street all night.’

  Maigret suspected as much. That was not worrying.

  ‘I didn’t want to go into Piquemal’s room while it was dark, because I’d have had to put the light on, which would have been visible from the street. I waited until daybreak and then conducted a more thorough search of the place than the first time. One of the things I did was to flick through every single book. I found this letter inside a political economy treatise, serving as a bookmark.’

  One hand on the steering wheel, with the other he drew his wallet from his pocket and held it out to Maigret.

  ‘In the left-hand fold. The note with the Chamber of Deputies letterhead.’

  It was a small piece of paper, like the memos used by members of the Chamber. The letter was dated the previous Thursday. The handwriting was cramped and careless, with letters overlapping and word endings that were almost illegible.

  Dear Monsieur,

  Thank you for your communication. I am extremely interested in what you have told me and I would be pleased to meet you tomorrow, at around 8 p.m., at the Brasserie du Croissant, Rue Montmartre. In the meantime, I would ask you not to speak of this matter to anyone.

  Yours

  There was no signature proper, but initials which could have been any letters of the alphabet.

  ‘I suppose it’s from Joseph Mascoulin?’ grunted Maigret.

  ‘It is from him, yes. I paid a visit early this morning to a friend who’s a stenographer at the Chamber and knows the handwriting of most of the deputies. I only had to show him the first line and the initials.’

  They had already reached Boulevard Saint-Germain and Maigret noticed several press cars outside the Ministry of Public Works. He glanced across the street but saw no one from Rue des Saussaies. Had they called off the surveillance now that the bombshell had exploded?

  ‘Shall I wait for you?’

  ‘It might be best.’

  He crossed the courtyard, went up the main staircase and found himself in a waiting room with a dark-red carpet and yellowish columns where he recognized several faces. Two or three journalists started to make a beeline for him, but an official forestalled them.