Maigret and the Minister

by Georges Simenon

  ‘A wonderful invention, isn’t it?’ said Mascoulin with his nasty sardonic grin. ‘People have no qualms about disputing a carbon copy, but it is impossible to deny a Photostat.’

  A vague smile lit up Maigret’s face, which did not escape Mascoulin.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘I was wondering whether, among the people who have recently had the Calame Report in their hands, there was anyone who had the idea of Photostatting it.’

  It was not by inadvertence that Mascoulin had allowed him to see the machine. Falk could have disappeared for a moment with the documents without Maigret having any idea what he was up to in the adjacent room.

  The damp sheets emerged from a slit and the secretary spread them out to dry on the table.

  ‘It would be a good trick to play on those who are so keen to hush up the affair, wouldn’t it?’ sniggered Mascoulin.

  Maigret gazed at him in silence, giving him his most impassive and at the same time ponderous look.

  ‘A good trick, yes,’ he echoed.

  No one would have guessed that the thought sent shivers down his spine.

  8. The Trip to Seineport

  When they arrived at Boulevard Saint-Germain, it was half past six and the ministry courtyard was deserted. As Maigret and Lapointe headed towards the staircase that led up to the minister’s office, a voice behind them called:

  ‘Hey! You two … Where are you going?’

  The security guard hadn’t seen them stride past. They froze, facing him, in the middle of the courtyard, and he hobbled over to them, glanced at the badge Maigret flashed and then at his face.

  ‘My apologies. I saw your photo earlier.’

  ‘You did the right thing. But since you’re here, tell me …’

  It was becoming a habit to take the photo from his wallet.

  ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  The porter, anxious not to make another blunder, put on a pair of steel-rimmed glasses with thick lenses then studied it closely. He said neither yes nor no but gave the impression that, before committing himself, he wanted to ask what it was all about but didn’t dare.

  ‘He’s a bit older now, isn’t he?’

  ‘A few years.’

  ‘Does he have a two-seater car, black, a vintage model?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Then he’s probably the man I caught parking his car in the courtyard in the space reserved for ministry vehicles.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t remember the day. Around the beginning of the week.’

  ‘Didn’t he give his name?’

  ‘He shrugged and went and parked the car on the other side of the courtyard.’

  ‘Did he go up the main staircase?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘While we’re up there, try to remember the day.’

  In the first-floor waiting room, the clerk was still at his desk, reading the newspapers. Maigret showed him the photograph too. He shook his head.

  ‘When would he have come?’ he asked.

  ‘Around the beginning of the week.’

  ‘I wasn’t here. I had to take four days’ leave because of my wife’s death. You’ll have to ask Joseph. He’ll be here next week. Shall I inform the minister that you’re here?’

  A moment later, Auguste Point opened the door to his office in person. He looked tired but calm. He showed Maigret and Lapointe in without asking any questions. Mademoiselle Blanche and his principal private secretary were both in the room. Radios couldn’t yet be standard ministry equipment because on a pedestal table there was a small portable radio, probably belonging to Point, which the three of them must have been listening to when the clerk had interrupted them.

  ‘… The session was brief, exclusively devoted to current matters, but the corridors were buzzing all afternoon. All sorts of rumours were going around. There is talk of a sensational arrest on Monday, but it is still not known …’

  ‘Turn it off!’ Point said to his secretary.

  Fleury made for one of the doors, but Maigret stopped him.

  ‘You are not in the way, Monsieur Fleury. Neither are you, mademoiselle.’

  Point watched him, anxious, because it was difficult to guess what Maigret had come to do. What was more, he seemed like a man who was following his instinct, so intent on it that he was oblivious to everything else.

  He appeared to be making a mental map of the office. He looked at the walls, the doors.

  ‘Would you permit me, minister, to ask your staff a couple of questions?’

  He turned to Fleury first.

  ‘I assume that during Piquemal’s visit, you were in your office?’

  ‘I was not aware that—’

  ‘Fine. But now you know. Where were you at that time?’

  He pointed to a double door that stood ajar.

  ‘Is that your office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maigret went over to have a quick look around.

  ‘Were you alone?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. I’m rarely alone for long. There’s a steady stream of visitors all day. The minister sees some of them, the most important people, and I deal with the others.’

  Maigret went over and opened a door that led directly from the waiting room into Fleury’s office.

  ‘Do they come through this door?’

  ‘Usually. Apart from those the minister has seen first and brings into my office for some reason.’

  The telephone rang. Point and Mademoiselle Blanche exchanged glances. Mademoiselle Blanche picked up the receiver.

  ‘No. The minister is not here …’

  She listened, with a fixed gaze. She too looked exhausted.

  ‘The same thing?’ asked Point when she had hung up.

  She blinked a yes.

  ‘He says that his son was—’

  ‘That’s enough.’

  He turned to Maigret.

  ‘The telephone’s been ringing non-stop since midday. I took a few of the calls myself. Most of them are saying the same thing: “If you continue to hush up the Clairfond affair, we’ll get you!”

  ‘There are variations. Some are more polite. Some even give their name and they are the parents of the children killed in the disaster. One woman shouted emotionally: “You’re not going to protect the murderers, are you! If you haven’t destroyed the report, show it, so that the whole of France knows …” ’

  He had dark rings around his eyes and the sallow complexion of someone deprived of sleep.

  ‘The chairman of my electoral committee in La Roche-sur-Yon, a man who is a friend of my father’s and who has known me since I was in short trousers, called me earlier, almost immediately after my statement was broadcast on the radio. He didn’t accuse me, but I could tell he had doubts.

  ‘ “The people around here don’t understand, my boy,” he said sadly. “They knew your parents and they think they know you. Even if it means bringing them all down, you must speak out and tell what you know.” ’

  ‘You will do so soon,’ replied Maigret.

  Point looked up abruptly, not certain he had heard correctly, and asked incredulously:

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Now I am certain.’

  Fleury was leaning against a table at the other end of the office. Maigret held out the photograph of Benoît. Point stared at it, baffled.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Don’t you know him?’

  ‘I don’t recognize his face.’

  ‘Hasn’t he been to see you recently?’

  ‘If he has, his name will be in the register in the waiting room.’

  ‘Would you show me your office, Mademoiselle Blanche?’

  Fleury, on the other side of the room, had not been able to see the photograph and Maigret noticed that he was biting his nails, a childhood habit he had clearly not managed to shed.

  The single door to the secretary’s office was right next to that of the principa
l private secretary.

  ‘Is this where you came when Piquemal arrived and your boss asked you to leave them alone together?’

  Tense, she nodded.

  ‘Did you shut the door behind you?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Could you hear what was being said on the other side?’

  ‘If I’d pressed my ear to the door and if they’d been speaking loudly enough, I might have done.’

  ‘But you didn’t do so?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never do that?’

  She chose not to answer. Did she eavesdrop, for example, when Point received a woman she considered pretty or a threat?

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  That was what she had been expecting, because she had managed to steal a glance at the photo when the minister was looking at it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where have you seen him?’

  She spoke softly, so that the others couldn’t hear.

  ‘In the office next door.’

  She pointed at the partition between her office and Fleury’s.

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the day of Piquemal’s visit.’

  ‘After?’

  ‘No. Before.’

  ‘Was he sitting down, standing?’

  ‘Sitting, with his hat on his head and a cigar in his mouth. I didn’t like the way he looked at me.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘Yes. After.’

  ‘You mean he was still there when Piquemal left, that he was in the next-door office for the duration of the visit?’

  ‘I suppose so. He was there before and after. Do you think that …?’

  She probably wanted to talk to him about Fleury, but he merely said:

  ‘Sssh! … Come …’

  When he stepped back into the main office, Point gazed at him reproachfully, as if he were annoyed with Maigret for harassing his secretary.

  ‘Do you need your principal private secretary this evening, minister?’

  ‘No … Why …?’

  ‘Because I’d like to interview him.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In my office, preferably. Would you mind coming with us, Monsieur Fleury?’

  ‘I have a dinner arrangement, but if it is essential—’

  ‘Call and cancel.’

  Fleury did so. Leaving his office door open, he called Fouquet’s.

  ‘Bob? Fleury here. Has Jacqueline arrived? … Not yet? … Are you certain? … When she gets there, would you tell her to start eating without me? … Yes … I probably won’t be dining … Later, yes … See you later …’

  Lapointe watched him out of the corner of his eye. Point, bemused, was gazing at Maigret, visibly wanting to ask him for an explanation. Maigret appeared not to notice.

  ‘Are you doing anything this evening, minister?’

  ‘I was supposed to be guest of honour at a dinner, but I cancelled before they asked me not to attend.’

  ‘I may telephone you to give you some news, probably quite late.’

  ‘Even if it’s in the middle of the night …’

  Fleury had reappeared, holding his hat and coat, looking like a man who is only able to stand on his two feet through force of habit.

  ‘Are you ready? Are you coming, Lapointe?’

  The three of them descended the main staircase in silence and headed for the car, which they had parked by the kerb.

  ‘Get in … Quai des Orfèvres, please, Lapointe …’

  They did not exchange a word during the journey. Fleury opened his mouth a couple of times but did not ask any questions and kept biting his nails.

  Maigret made him walk ahead of him up the dusty staircase, then led the way into his office, where he went to close the window.

  ‘You may take off your overcoat. Make yourself comfortable.’

  He signalled to Lapointe, who joined him outside in the corridor.

  ‘Stay with him until I get back. It will be quite a while. You may be here late into the night.’

  Lapointe turned red.

  ‘Are you meeting a young lady?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Can you telephone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If she wants to come and keep you company …’

  Lapointe shook his head.

  ‘Have some sandwiches and coffee brought up from the brasserie. Don’t take your eyes off Fleury. Stop him from making any telephone calls. If he asks you questions, you don’t know anything. I want him to stew in his own juice, do you understand?’

  It was the classic treatment. Even though Lapointe had been involved in most of the investigation, he couldn’t see what his chief was leading up to.

  ‘Go and stay with him. Don’t forget the sandwiches.’

  He went into the inspectors’ office and found Janvier, who hadn’t yet left for the day.

  ‘Are you doing anything special this evening?’

  ‘No. My wife—’

  ‘Is expecting you? Can you telephone her?’

  He sat on one of the tables and picked up another handset, and requested Catroux’s number.

  ‘Maigret here … Forgive me for disturbing you again … Something came back to me earlier, thanks to some fish hooks I came across … One of the times I met Benoît, it was a Saturday, at Gare de Lyon, and he was off fishing … What’s that? … He’s a keen angler? … You don’t know where he normally goes fishing? …’

  Maigret, now sure of himself, was convinced he was on the right track and felt as though nothing could stop him.

  ‘… What? … A shack somewhere? … You don’t have a way of finding out where? … Yes … Right away … I’ll stay by the phone …’

  Janvier was still speaking to his wife, asking for news of each of the children, who then came to say good night one after the other.

  ‘Good night, Pierrot … Sleep well … Yes, I’ll be there when you wake up … Is that you, Monique? Has your little brother been a good boy? …’

  Maigret waited with a sigh. When Janvier hung up, he muttered:

  ‘We may have a very busy night. That makes me think I’d better telephone my wife too.’

  ‘Shall I ask the operator to put you through?’

  ‘I’m waiting for an important call first.’

  Catroux was telephoning a colleague, an angler himself, who had sometimes gone fishing with Benoît by the river.

  Now it was a matter of luck. The colleague might not be at home. He might be on a case far from Paris. The silence in the office lasted a good ten minutes and Maigret eventually sighed:

  ‘I’m thirsty!’

  Just then, the phone rang.

  ‘Catroux?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know Seineport?’

  ‘Just beyond Corbeil, near a lock?’

  Maigret remembered a case, once …

  ‘That’s right. A little village by the Seine, frequented mainly by anglers. Benoît has a shack not far from the village, a tumbledown former gamekeeper’s lodge which he bought for a song around ten years ago.’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘Good luck!’

  He did not forget to call his wife, but, unlike Janvier, he didn’t have children to come and wish him good night over the phone.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  As he walked past, he half-opened the door to his office. Lapointe had switched on the lamp with the green shade and was ensconced in Maigret’s chair. He was reading the newspaper while Fleury sat with his legs crossed, stony-faced, his eyes half-closed.

  ‘See you later, kid.’

  The principal private secretary gave a start and rose to ask a question, but Maigret had already shut the door again.

  ‘Are we taking the car?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to Seineport, around thirty kilometres away.’

  ‘I went there once before with you.’

  ‘That’s right. Are you hungry?’

  ‘If we have to stay there for
a long time …’

  ‘Stop at the Brasserie Dauphine.’

  The waiter was surprised when they walked in.

  ‘So I don’t have to take the sandwiches and beer that Monsieur Lapointe ordered up to your office?’

  ‘Yes, you do. But first, give us something to drink. What are you having, Janvier?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Pernod?’

  That suited Maigret and Janvier knew it, and he ordered one too.

  ‘Make us two hearty sandwiches each.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Anything. Pâté, if you have any.’

  Maigret appeared to be the calmest man on earth.

  ‘We are too used to criminal cases,’ he muttered to himself, glass in hand.

  He didn’t need a response. He added mentally:

  ‘In a criminal case, there’s usually only one culprit, or a group of culprits acting in unison. In politics, it’s different and the proof is that there are so many parties in the Chamber.’

  He found this idea amusing.

  ‘A lot of people have an interest in the Calame Report, for different reasons. Not only the politicians who would be put in a difficult position if the report were published. Not only Arthur Nicoud. There are also those for whom possession of the report would be an asset, and those for whom it would mean power.’

  Customers were few and far between that evening. The lamps were lit, the atmosphere as heavy as before a storm.

  They ate their sandwiches at Maigret’s usual table and that made him think of Mascoulin’s table at the Filet de Sole. They both had their own tables, in different places, and moved in circles that were even more different.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Brandy?’

  ‘No. I’m driving.’

  Maigret didn’t have one either and, a little later, they left Paris via the Porte d’Italie and took the Fontainebleau road.

  ‘It’s funny to think that if Benoît had smoked a pipe instead of those smelly cigars, our task would have been a great deal harder.’

  They drove through the suburbs. Then there was nothing but tall trees on either side, cars with their headlights on driving in both directions. Many of them overtook the little black car.

  ‘I assume I don’t need to go fast?’

  ‘There’s no point. Either they’re there or …’

  He knew men like Benoît well enough to be able to put himself in their shoes. Benoît did not have much imagination. He was just a small-time swindler whose little fiddles had by no means made him a fortune.