Maigret and the Minister

by Georges Simenon

  Maigret caught up with Lapointe on the third floor because no one was home in the left-hand apartment on the second floor.

  In keeping with the character of the building, the residents lived seemingly uneventful, ordinary family lives behind closed doors. The aroma changed from one floor to the next, as did the colour of the wallpaper, but everything reflected the honest, hard-working class of people who are always slightly afraid of the police.

  Maigret was struggling with a deaf old lady who hadn’t asked him in and made him repeat every question. He heard Lapointe’s voice coming from the opposite apartment.

  ‘Why would I have opened my door?’ shouted the deaf woman. ‘Is that minx of a concierge accusing me of spying on the residents?’

  ‘Not at all, madame. No one’s accusing you of anything.’

  ‘So why are the police coming here asking me questions?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish whether a man—’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘A man we don’t know but whom we’re looking for.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  He was still trying to get her to understand when the door opposite opened. Lapointe signalled that he was on to something and Maigret abruptly took his leave of the peeved old woman.

  ‘May I introduce Madame Gaudry, chief? Her husband works in a bank on Boulevard des Italiens. Her son is five.’

  Maigret glimpsed the boy behind his mother, clinging on to her dress with both hands.

  ‘In the mornings, she sometimes sends the boy on an errand to one of the nearby shops, but only those on this side of the street.’

  ‘I don’t let him cross the road on his own. I always leave the door ajar when he’s out. So on Tuesday—’

  ‘Did you hear someone going upstairs?’

  ‘Yes. I was expecting Bob. For a moment, I thought it was him. Most people take the lift, but I don’t allow him to yet.’

  ‘I could!’ asserted the boy. ‘I already made it work.’

  ‘And you were punished. Anyway, I glanced out just as a man stepped on to the landing and headed up to the fourth floor.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Around half past ten. I’d just put a stew on the stove.’

  ‘Did the man speak to you?’

  ‘No. At first I only saw his back. He was wearing a lightweight beige coat, maybe a raincoat, I didn’t take much notice. He had broad shoulders, a fairly thick neck.’

  She darted a look at Maigret’s neck.

  ‘My portly build?’

  She hesitated, blushing.

  ‘Not quite. He was younger. In his forties, I would say. I caught a glimpse of his face when he reached the bend in the stairs. He glared at me and seemed annoyed that I was there.’

  ‘Did he stop on the fourth floor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he ring a doorbell?’

  ‘No. He went into Monsieur Point’s apartment, although it did take him a while to open the door.’

  ‘As if he were trying several keys?’

  ‘I can’t say that, but as if he wasn’t used to the lock.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘I didn’t because this time he took the lift.’

  ‘Much later?’

  ‘Less than ten minutes.’

  ‘Were you on the landing all that time?’

  ‘No. Only Bob still wasn’t back and the door was half-open. I heard the lift go up, stop at the fourth and come back down again.’

  ‘Apart from his portliness, could you describe him?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. His face was ruddy, like that of a man who enjoys his food.’

  ‘Glasses?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure not.’

  ‘Was he smoking a pipe? A cigarette?’

  ‘No … Wait … I’m almost certain he was smoking a cigar … It struck me because my brother-in-law …’

  The description was similar to that given by the bar owner in Rue Jacob of the man who had accosted Piquemal, with the additional detail of the cigar. It could also match that of the stranger who had broken into Mademoiselle Blanche’s lodgings in Rue Vaneau.

  A few minutes later, Maigret and Lapointe were outside in the street.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Drop me at headquarters. Then go to Rue Vaneau and Rue Jacob to find out whether the man had been smoking a cigar by any chance.’

  Back at his office, he found that Lucas had already got hold of a photograph in which Piquemal was shown. He was in the back row, unfortunately, but it was clear enough for the experts in Criminal Records to work on.

  He asked to see the commissioner and spent almost half an hour bringing him up to date.

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ sighed the chief when Maigret had finished.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’ll be even happier when we find out – if we ever do – who this fellow is.’

  They both had the same niggling doubt which they preferred not to voice. Was it possible that the individual who had been seen by three witnesses might be someone from their rival department in Rue des Saussaies?

  Maigret had good friends in the Sûreté, one in particular called Catroux, whose son he had helped rise through the ranks. He was reluctant to turn to him, because if Catroux knew something, Maigret risked compromising him.

  Shortly, the photograph of Piquemal would be in the afternoon newspapers. Would it not be ironic if the man the Police Judiciaire was looking for was in the hands of the Sûreté?

  They might have taken him out of circulation for a while because he knew too much.

  The other possibility was that they had taken him to Rue des Saussaies to worm information from him.

  The newspapers were going to announce that the Police Judiciaire was handling the investigation, which would be headed by Maigret.

  It would be fair game for the Sûreté to let him launch his manhunt and then, within a few hours, announce that they had caught Piquemal.

  ‘You are certain, of course, that Point is to be believed and isn’t hiding anything from you, aren’t you?’ his chief pressed him.

  ‘I’d swear it.’

  ‘His entourage as well?’

  ‘That’s my impression. I have investigated all of them. Admittedly, I don’t know everything about their lives, but what I do know makes me think we should be looking elsewhere. The letter I showed you …’

  ‘Mascoulin?’

  ‘He is definitely mixed up in this business. The letter proves it.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘It may not get me any further, but I want to get a closer look at him, for no particular reason. All I need to do is go and have lunch at the Filet de Sole, Place des Victoires, where he reportedly holds court.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I know.’

  He dropped into the inspectors’ office to give some instructions. Lapointe had just come in.

  ‘Well? The cigars?’

  ‘It’s odd that it’s a woman who noticed that detail. The café owner was unable to say for certain whether the man was smoking a pipe, a cigar or a cigarette, even though he stood at the bar for over a quarter of an hour. But he reckons it was most likely a cigar. Mademoiselle Blanche’s concierge, however, was adamant.’

  ‘Was he smoking a cigar?’

  ‘No. A cigarette. He dropped the butt on the stairs and crushed it with his shoe.’

  It was one o’clock when Maigret entered the famous restaurant on Place des Victoires, with an unpleasant tightening of his chest, because it is not advisable, when you are a mere public servant, to confront a Mascoulin.

  He had nothing on the man, apart from a brief note for which the deputy could give a hundred plausible explanations. And, here, Mascoulin was on his own turf. Maigret was an intruder and the head waiter watched him enter without stepping forwards to greet him.


  ‘Do you have a table?’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘I am alone.’

  Most of the tables were taken and there was a steady buzz of conversation amid the clatter of cutlery and the clinking of glasses. The head waiter looked around and showed Maigret to a small table wedged next to the revolving door.

  There were three other free tables, but, had Maigret said anything, he would probably have been told they were reserved, which was very likely.

  The cloakroom attendant eventually came and took his overcoat and hat. He then had to wait a good while before a waiter took his order, which gave him time to observe the entire room.

  The restaurant was frequented by important people and, at lunch, it was full of men – financiers, lawyers, journalists and politicians, all moving in the same circles and acknowledging one another across the room with a little nod or a wave.

  Some had recognized Maigret and at several tables people were probably whispering about him.

  Joseph Mascoulin was sitting in the corner, on the banquette, in the company of Maître Pinard, a lawyer who was almost as renowned as the deputy for the ferocity of his defence speeches.

  A third guest had his back to Maigret, a middle-aged man with tapering shoulders and wispy grey hair combed over his head. It was only when he saw him in profile that Maigret recognized Sauvegrain, Nicoud’s brother-in-law and partner, whose photograph he had seen in the newspapers.

  Already Mascoulin, who was eating a rib steak, had spotted Maigret and was staring at him as if there were nothing else of interest in the room. At first his eyes showed curiosity, and then a little glint of irony, and now he seemed to be waiting with amusement for Maigret’s next move.

  The waiter came over at last and Maigret requested a half-bottle of Pouilly and carried on puffing on his pipe, meeting Mascoulin’s gaze. The difference between them was that, as always in these cases, Maigret’s eyes looked vacant. He made it seem that whatever he was staring at was as neutral and uninteresting as a blank wall, and that he was thinking of nothing other than the sole Dieppoise he had just ordered.

  He by no means knew the full story of Nicoud and his company. Rumour had it that Sauvegrain, the brother-in-law, had been a nobody until he married Nicoud’s sister a decade ago, was only nominally part of the company. He had an office, Avenue de la République, not far from Nicoud’s. This office was vast, luxurious, but Sauvegrain spent his days there waiting for visitors of no consequence sent to keep him busy.

  If Mascoulin entertained him openly at his table, he must have his reasons. And was Maître Pinard there because he handled Sauvegrain’s affairs?

  A newspaper editor stopped at Maigret’s table on his way out and shook his hand.

  ‘On a case?’ he asked him.

  And, since Maigret pretended not to understand:

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here.’

  He glanced over towards Mascoulin’s corner.

  ‘I didn’t know the Police Judiciaire got involved in this sort of thing. Have you found Piquemal?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Still looking for the Calame Report?’

  He said this in a jeering tone, as if the Calame Report had only existed in some people’s imaginations, or if it did exist, Maigret would never find it.

  ‘We’re looking,’ he merely replied.

  The journalist opened his mouth, thought better of it and left with a cordial wave. In the revolving door, he almost bumped into a new arrival whom Maigret would probably not have seen had he not been staring after the editor.

  As he pushed the door, the man spotted Maigret through the glass pane and his expression registered a certain dismay. Ordinarily, he would have greeted Maigret, whom he had known for years. He almost did so, glanced hesitantly at Mascoulin’s table and, hoping perhaps that Maigret hadn’t had a chance to recognize him, abruptly turned around and vanished.

  Mascoulin, from his corner, had missed nothing of the scene, although he remained poker-faced.

  What was Maurice Labat doing at the Filet de Sole, and why had he beaten a hasty retreat on seeing Maigret in the restaurant?

  For ten years or so he had been part of a department at the Sûreté and there was even a period, admittedly brief, when it was said that he had influence over the minister.

  One day, it suddenly emerged that he had handed in his resignation, and subsequently that he had not done so of his own free will but to avoid more serious trouble.

  Since then, he continued to be seen on the fringes of circles that frequented places like the Filet de Sole. He had not, like others in his situation, opened a private detective agency. He had no known profession or source of income. In addition to his wife and children, he had a mistress twenty years younger than him in an apartment in Rue de Ponthieu, whose upkeep must have been quite costly.

  The Labat incident gave Maigret food for thought and he was too distracted to savour his sole Dieppoise as it deserved.

  Was it not natural to think that the person the former police officer was coming to see at the Filet de Sole was no other than Mascoulin?

  Labat was the man, among a thousand, who could be entrusted with certain dubious tasks, and he must still have some friends at Rue des Saussaies.

  In making his getaway, had he hoped that Maigret hadn’t had time to recognize him? Had Mascoulin, whom Maigret couldn’t see at that moment, signalled to him not to come in?

  Had Labat been in his forties, plump and smoked a cigar, Maigret would have been convinced that he had just encountered the man who had visited Boulevard Pasteur and Rue Vaneau and who had kidnapped Piquemal.

  But Labat was barely thirty-six. He was Corsican and looked typically Mediterranean. Short and wiry, he wore platform-heeled shoes to make himself look taller and had a brown drooping moustache. And he smoked cigarettes from dawn till dusk, attested by his nicotine-stained fingers.

  But even so, his appearance pointed Maigret in a new direction and he was annoyed with himself for having been obsessed with the Sûreté.

  Labat had formerly been at Rue des Saussaies but was no longer. In Paris, there were a few dozen other former members of the Sûreté, thrown out for similar reasons.

  Maigret promised himself to get hold of a list of them later. He needed to telephone Lucas right away and ask him to get on to it. But he didn’t, and, strange as it may seem, he was reluctant to walk across the room under Mascoulin’s disdainful gaze.

  Mascoulin, who hadn’t ordered a dessert, was on his coffee. Maigret also skipped dessert but had a coffee and brandy. He started to fill his pipe, picturing the faces he had known at Rue des Saussaies. A name was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t remember it.

  The minute he had heard mention of a stout man, and especially one who smoked a cigar, it had rung a bell.

  He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely noticed Mascoulin stand up and wipe his mouth on his napkin, then address a few words to his companions. Or to be precise, he saw him rise, push back the table to let himself out, and start walking casually towards him, but it was as if it had nothing at all to do with him.

  ‘May I, inspector?’ said Mascoulin, grabbing the back of the chair facing Maigret.

  His face was solemn, with merely a quiver at the corner of his mouth, which might simply have been a nervous twitch.

  For a second, Maigret was disconcerted. He had not been expecting this. He had never heard Mascoulin’s voice, which was deep and honeyed. People said that it was because of his voice that women fought for seats in the Chamber when he was scheduled to speak, even though he had the face of a Grand Inquisitor.

  ‘Strange coincidence that you are here today. I was going to telephone you.’

  Maigret remained stone-faced, trying as best he could to make things more difficult for him, but Mascoulin appeared unfazed by his silence.

  ‘I have only just learned that you are dealing with Piquemal and the Calame Report.’

  He spoke softly, beca
use of the other diners, and many pairs of eyes were on them.

  ‘Not only do I have important information for you, but I think I should make an official statement. Perhaps later on you would like to send one of your inspectors over to the Chamber to take it down? Anyone will tell him where to find me.’

  Maigret still did not bat an eyelid.

  ‘It’s about this Piquemal. I happen to have been in touch with him last week.’

  Maigret had Mascoulin’s letter in his pocket, and he was beginning to understand why the latter felt the need to talk to him.

  ‘I don’t know which day it was when my secretary handed me one of the many letters I receive daily and which it is his job to answer. It was signed Piquemal and bore the address of a hotel in Rue Jacob whose name escapes me, the name of a provincial town, I believe.’

  Without taking his eyes off him, Maigret took a sip of coffee and began to puff on his pipe again.

  ‘As you can imagine, I receive several hundred letters every day from all sorts of people, mad, half-mad, honest folk informing me of wrongdoings, and it is the job of my secretary, a young man of excellent character whom I trust completely, to sift them.’

  Why did Maigret wonder, as he scrutinized Mascoulin’s face, whether he was a homosexual? There had never been any gossip about him to suggest it. If he was, he hid it very carefully. It seemed to Maigret that that would explain certain of his character traits.

  ‘Piquemal’s letter sounded sincere and I am sure you will agree if I can lay my hands on it, because I will make it my duty to send it to you. He wrote that he was the only man in Paris who knew the whereabouts of the Calame Report and was in a position to obtain it. He added that he was writing to me rather than to an official body because he knew that it was in too many people’s interests to hush up the affair and that I was the only person he completely trusted. Forgive me for repeating his words. I sent him a note, on the off-chance, inviting him to a meeting.’

  Maigret calmly took his wallet out of his pocket and extracted the letter on headed notepaper from the Chamber. He contented himself with showing it without holding it out across the table, despite Mascoulin’s move to snatch it.