Maigret and the Minister

by Georges Simenon

  ‘This note?’

  ‘I imagine so. I think I recognize my handwriting.’

  He did not ask how Maigret came to have the letter in his possession, avoided showing the slightest surprise, and said:

  ‘I see you already know. I met him at the Brasserie du Croissant, which is close to the print works and where I hold some of my evening meetings. He seemed a little too fanatical, a little too much of an agitator for my liking. I let him speak.’

  ‘Did he tell you he had the report in his possession?’

  ‘Not exactly. Men like that never do things so simply. They need to create an atmosphere of conspiracy. He told me he worked at the École des Ponts et Chaussées, that he had been assistant to Professor Calame and that he believed he knew the whereabouts of the report written in the past about the Clairfond sanatorium. Our conversation didn’t last longer than ten minutes because I had to check the proofs of my article.’

  ‘Did Piquemal then bring you the report?’

  ‘I didn’t see him again. He offered to give it to me on the Monday or the Tuesday at the latest. I told him that I did not want the document to pass through my hands, for reasons you will understand. We now have proof that that report is dynamite.’

  ‘Who did you advise him to give it to?’

  ‘To his superiors.’

  ‘In other words, the dean of the École des Ponts et Chaussées?’

  ‘I don’t think I said so in so many words. Perhaps I mentioned the word ministry, which naturally came to my mind.’

  ‘He didn’t try to telephone you?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of.’

  ‘Or to see you?’

  ‘If he did, he wasn’t successful because, as I told you, the only news I have had of him is through the press.

  ‘It would appear that he took my advice, going somewhat further, because he went straight to the minister. As soon as I heard he had disappeared, I promised myself I’d inform you of the incident. That is done. Given the potential repercussions of this affair, I would like my statement to be duly recorded. So if this afternoon …’

  There was nothing else to be done. Maigret was forced to send someone over to take down his statement. The inspector, Maigret was certain, would find Mascoulin surrounded by a number of colleagues and journalists. Was this not a way of accusing Auguste Point?

  ‘Thank you,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  Mascoulin looked slightly miffed, as if he had been expecting something else. Had he imagined that Maigret would ask him awkward questions, or show his disbelief in some way?

  ‘I’m simply doing my duty. Had I known that events would take this turn, I would have talked to you sooner.’

  He seemed to be playing a part all the time, and not even concealing the fact. He appeared to be saying:

  ‘I’ve outwitted you. Try and counter that!’

  Was Maigret wrong? From one point of view, certainly, because he had nothing to gain but everything to lose in confronting as powerful and wily a man as Mascoulin.

  The latter, on his feet, was proffering his hand. In a flash, Maigret remembered Point and his ‘dirty hands’ stance.

  He didn’t stop to weigh up the pros and the cons but grabbed his coffee cup, which was empty, and raised it to his lips, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  The politician’s eyes clouded. The quivering at the corner of his mouth intensified.

  He merely said:

  ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Maigret.’

  Did he intentionally stress the word ‘monsieur’ as Maigret thought? If so, it was a thinly veiled threat suggesting that Maigret would not enjoy his title of detective chief inspector for much longer.

  He followed Mascoulin with his gaze as he returned to his table, leaned towards his companions and shouted mechanically:

  ‘Waiter! The bill, please.’

  Ten people at least, who were all leading figures in the life of the country in one way or another, were staring at Maigret.

  He must have drunk his glass of brandy without realizing because once outside he noticed the taste in his mouth.

  7. Maigret’s Taxis

  This was not the first time Maigret had made one of his entrances, more as a friend than a boss. He opened the door of the inspectors’ office and, pushing back his hat, perched on the corner of a table and emptied his pipe on to the floor, banging it against his heel, then filling another. He looked at them all in turn as they went about their various tasks with the expression of a father returning home in the evening, happy to see his family, counting his children.

  Some time went by before he said:

  ‘I bet your photo’s going to be in the papers, young Lapointe.’

  The latter looked up, trying not to blush, with an expression of faint disbelief. Deep down, apart from Maigret who was used to it, most of them were secretly thrilled when the newspapers published their photograph, even though they pretended to protest:

  ‘With all that publicity, it’s not exactly going to be easy to work undercover!’

  The others listened too. If Maigret had come to talk to Lapointe in the shared office, it was because what he had to say to him concerned everyone.

  ‘Grab a notebook and go to the Chamber. I’m certain you’ll have no difficulty in locating Mascoulin, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you found him in distinguished company. He’ll make a statement which you’ll write down carefully. Then come back here and type it out and leave it on my desk.’

  The afternoon newspapers with front-page photographs of Auguste Point and himself were protruding from Maigret’s pocket. He had merely glanced at them. He knew almost exactly what the headlines said.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Lapointe, going over to take his coat and hat from the cupboard.

  ‘For now.’

  Maigret remained there smoking, in a reverie.

  ‘Listen, boys …’

  The inspectors looked up.

  ‘Try to think of people who have been fired or forced to resign from the Sûreté.’

  ‘Recently?’ asked Lucas.

  ‘It doesn’t matter when. Let’s say in the past ten years.’

  Torrence shouted:

  ‘There must be a list!’

  ‘Give me some names.’

  ‘Baudelin. The fellow who carries out investigations for an insurance company.’

  Maigret tried to recall Baudelin, a tall, pale young man who had had to leave Rue des Saussaies not for dishonesty or impropriety but because he devoted more energy and cunning to reporting in sick than to doing his job.

  ‘Another.’

  ‘Falconet.’

  Over fifty, Falconet had been asked to take early retirement because he had begun drinking and could no longer be relied on.

  ‘Another.’

  ‘Young Valencourt.’

  ‘Too young.’

  Contrary to what they had expected at first, they could only come up with a few names and, each time, after visualizing the man, Maigret would shake his head.

  ‘It still doesn’t fit. I need a plump man, almost as portly as me.’

  ‘Fischer.’

  There was a general outburst of laughter. Fischer weighed at least 120 kilos.

  ‘Thank you!’ grunted Maigret.

  He stayed with them for a while, then eventually stood up with a sigh.

  ‘Lucas! Will you telephone Rue des Saussaies and get hold of Catroux for me?’

  Now that he was dealing solely with inspectors who had left the Sûreté, he no longer felt as if he were asking his friend to betray the department. Catroux, who had been at Rue des Saussaies for twenty years, was better placed than the people in the Police Judiciaire to answer his question.

  It was clear that Maigret had a hunch that was still vague and probably didn’t entirely stack up. From his feigned air of surliness and his wide-eyed stare that seemed to bore right through people, the men gathered that he at least knew where to look.

  He was still racking his brains
for the name that had been eluding him earlier. Lucas was telephoning, speaking with familiarity to the person on the other end of the line, who must be a friend of his.

  ‘Catroux isn’t there, chief.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that he’s on a case in the far south of France?’

  ‘No. He’s ill.’

  ‘In hospital?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Did you ask for his address?’

  ‘I thought you knew it.’

  They were good friends, he and Catroux, it was true. But they had never been to each other’s homes. Maigret only remembered once dropping his colleague off outside his front door, Boulevard des Batignolles, near the top end, on the left, and he remembered there was a restaurant to the right of the door.

  ‘Has the photo of Piquemal been published?’

  ‘On page two.’

  ‘No phone calls about him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He repaired to his office, opened a few letters without sitting down, took some papers over to Torrence and finally went down into the yard but was loath to use one of the Police Judiciaire’s cars. When it came to it, he preferred a taxi. Although his visit to Catroux was perfectly innocuous, he judged it more prudent not to park a vehicle from Quai des Orfèvres outside his front door.

  Initially, he plumped for the wrong building, because there were now two restaurants fifty metres apart. He asked the concierge:

  ‘Monsieur Catroux?’

  ‘Second floor on the right. The lift’s out of order.’

  He rang the bell. He did not remember Madame Catroux, who opened the door, although she recognized him at once.

  ‘Come in, Monsieur Maigret.’

  ‘Is your husband in bed?’

  ‘No. In his armchair. It’s just a nasty bout of flu. He usually catches it at the beginning of the winter. This time it’s got him at the end.’

  On the walls were portraits of two children, a boy and a girl, at different ages. Both were now married, and photographs of the grandchildren had been added to the gallery.

  ‘Maigret?’ inquired Catroux’s delighted voice before his friend had reached the door of the room where he was resting.

  The vast living room was clearly the heart of the home. Catroux, bundled up in a thick dressing gown, was sitting by the window, newspapers on his knees, more on a chair beside him, a bowl of herbal tea on a pedestal table. He was holding a cigarette.

  ‘Are you allowed to smoke?’

  ‘Shh! Don’t you side with my wife. Just a few puffs from time to time, for the taste.’

  He was hoarse and his eyes were feverish.

  ‘Take off your coat. It must be very warm in here. My wife insists I should sweat it out. Sit down.’

  ‘Will you have something to drink, Monsieur Maigret?’ asked Madame Catroux.

  To Maigret’s surprise, she was almost an old lady. He and Catroux were around the same age. He had the impression that his own wife looked a lot younger.

  ‘Of course, Isabelle. Don’t wait for him to answer, go and get the decanter of vintage Calvados.’

  There was an awkward silence between the two men. Catroux knew, of course, that his colleague from the Police Judiciaire hadn’t come up to see him to inquire after his health, and he was perhaps expecting questions that were a lot more uncomfortable than those Maigret had in mind.

  ‘Don’t worry, my friend. I have no wish to put you in an awkward situation.’

  Catroux then glanced at the front page of the newspaper as if to say:

  ‘It’s about this, isn’t it?’

  Maigret waited until Madame Catroux had poured his glass of Calvados.

  ‘What about me?’ protested his friend.

  ‘You’re not allowed.’

  ‘The doctor didn’t say that.’

  ‘I don’t need him to say so to know.’

  ‘Just a drop, so that I can pretend?’

  She poured him a thimbleful then discreetly left the room, as Madame Maigret would have done.

  ‘I’ve got an idea in the back of my mind,’ admitted Maigret. ‘Earlier, with my inspectors, we were trying to draw up a list of all the people who once worked with you and were thrown out.’

  Catroux was still looking at the newspaper, trying to make a connection between what Maigret was saying and what he had just read.

  ‘Thrown out, why?’

  ‘For any reason. You know what I’m talking about. It happens at our place too, less often because there are fewer of us.’

  Catroux smiled, teasing.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘And also, perhaps, because we deal with fewer sorts of things. So the temptation isn’t so strong. Earlier, we racked our brains, but we only came up with a few names.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Baudelin, Falconet, Valencourt, Fischer …’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Pretty much. I thought it better to come and see you. They’re not the type I’m looking for. It’s those who turned bad.’

  ‘Like Labat?’

  Was it not strange that Catroux should come up with that particular name? It was almost as if he were doing it deliberately to inform Maigret inadvertently.

  ‘I thought of him. He’s probably mixed up in it. But he’s not the one I’m looking for.’

  ‘Do you have a name in mind?’

  ‘A name and a face. I’ve been given a description. It reminded me of someone from the outset. And ever since …’

  ‘What description? That’ll be quicker than me giving you an entire list. Especially since I don’t have all the names in my mind either.’

  ‘First of all, people took him for a police officer on sight.’

  ‘That could apply to a lot of them.’

  ‘Middle aged. A bit plumper than normal. Slightly less rotund than me.’

  Catroux seemed to be assessing Maigret’s girth.

  ‘Either I’m very much mistaken or he’s still carrying out investigations, either privately or on behalf of certain clients.’

  ‘A private detective agency?’

  ‘Perhaps. He doesn’t necessarily have his name on the door of an office, or put ads in the newspapers.’

  ‘There are several, including former very respectable chiefs who opened up an agency on their retirement. Louis Canonge, for example. And Cadet, who used to be my boss.’

  ‘We have some of those too. I’m talking about the other category.’

  ‘Don’t you have a fuller description?’

  ‘He smokes cigars.’

  Immediately, Maigret saw that Catroux was thinking of someone. His brow had furrowed. There was a look of annoyance on his face.

  ‘Does that ring a bell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A scoundrel.’

  ‘It’s a scoundrel I’m looking for.’

  ‘A petty but dangerous scoundrel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Firstly, those bastards are always dangerous. And secondly, he does the dirty work for certain politicians.’

  ‘That still fits.’

  ‘Do you think he’s mixed up in your case?’

  ‘If he matches the description I gave you, smokes cigars and dabbles in politics, the chances are that he’s my man. You don’t mean …’

  Suddenly, Maigret could picture a face, a broad face, with puffy eyes, full lips deformed by a cigar butt.

  ‘Wait! It’s coming back to me. It’s …’

  But the name still eluded him.

  ‘Benoît,’ whispered Catroux. ‘Eugène Benoît. He opened a private detective agency on Boulevard Saint-Martin, above a watchmaker’s. His name is on the window. I think the door’s closed more often than it’s open, because he’s the sole employee.’

  That was indeed the name Maigret had been trying to think of for the past twenty-four hours.

  ‘I don’t suppose it would be easy to get hold of his photograph?’

  Catr
oux thought about it.

  ‘That depends on the exact date he left the department. It was …’

  He made some calculations under his breath and called out:

  ‘Isabelle!’

  His wife, who was not far away, scuttled in.

  ‘Look on the bottom shelf of the bookcase for a directory of the Sûreté. There’s only one, which dates from a few years ago. It contains two or three hundred photos.’

  She brought it to him and he leafed through it, pointed out his own portrait, and only found what he was looking for on one of the last pages.

  ‘Here! This is him. He’s a few years older, but he hasn’t changed much. As for his girth, I’ve always known him fat.’

  Maigret recognized him too, because he had met him in the past.

  ‘You don’t mind if I cut out his photo?’

  ‘Go ahead. Bring some scissors, Isabelle.’

  Maigret slid the square of glossy paper into his wallet and rose.

  ‘In a hurry?’

  ‘Yes, somewhat. Besides, I imagine you’d rather I didn’t say too much about this business.’

  Catroux understood. So long as Maigret wasn’t aware of the precise role played by the Sûreté, it was better for Catroux if his colleague told him as little as possible.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you think that Point …?’

  ‘I’m convinced he’s being used as a scapegoat.’

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. Get well soon.’

  Madame Catroux showed him to the door and, once outside, he took another taxi to Rue Vaneau. It was a shot in the dark. He knocked at the concierge’s lodge. She recognized him.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you again. I’d like you to take a close look at a photograph and tell me if this is the man who went up to Mademoiselle Blanche’s apartment. Take your time.’

  There was no need. Without hesitation, she shook her head.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Even if the photo was taken a few years ago and the man has changed since?’

  ‘Even if he were wearing a false beard, I’d state that it wasn’t him.’

  He gave her a sidelong look, because it flashed into his mind that this was perhaps an answer she had been told to give. But no! He could tell she was speaking the truth.