Maigret and the Reluctant Witnesses

by Georges Simenon

  Georges Simenon

  * * *

  MAIGRET AND THE RELUCTANT WITNESSES

  Translated by WILLIAM HOBSON

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Follow Penguin

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.

  Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic:

  My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points … ‘understand and judge not’.

  Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  MAIGRET AND THE RELUCTANT WITNESSES

  ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’

  – John Banville

  ‘A brilliant writer’

  – India Knight

  ‘Intense atmosphere and resonant detail … make Simenon’s fiction remarkably like life’

  – Julian Barnes

  ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’

  – Muriel Spark

  ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’

  – A. N. Wilson

  ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’

  – John Gray

  ‘A writer of genius, one whose simplicity of language creates indelible images that the florid stylists of our own day can only dream of’

  – Daily Mail

  ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’

  – Anita Brookner

  ‘One of the greatest writers of our time’

  – The Sunday Times

  ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’

  – William Faulkner

  ‘One of the great psychological novelists of this century’

  – Independent

  ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’

  – André Gide

  ‘Simenon ought to be spoken of in the same breath as Camus, Beckett and Kafka’

  – Independent on Sunday

  1

  ‘You haven’t forgotten your umbrella, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  The door was about to shut, and Maigret was already turning towards the stairs.

  ‘You’d better wear your scarf.’

  His wife ran to get it, unaware that this little remark would leave him out of sorts for some time, melancholy thoughts churning through his brain.

  It was only November – 3 November – and it wasn’t especially cold. It was just raining, one of those insistent showers out of a low, monotonous sky that, especially early in the morning, seem wetter and somehow more treacherous than other types of rain.

  Earlier, when he had got out of bed, he had winced because his neck hurt when he turned his head. You couldn’t call it a cricked neck, it just felt stiff, slightly tender.

  After coming out of the cinema the previous evening, they had walked home a fair way along the boulevards and it was already raining by then.

  None of this mattered, and yet thanks to the scarf – perhaps also the fact that it was a thick scarf his wife had knitted – he felt old.

  Going down the stairs, which had a trail of wet footprints, and outside, walking along under his umbrella, he thought back to what she had said the day before. In two years’ time he’d be retiring.

  He had been as excited as her at the prospect. They had spent ages idly chatting about the part of the country they were going to move to, Meung-sur-Loire, which they both loved.

  A little boy running along bare-headed bumped into him and didn’t apologize. A young married couple walked past, arm in arm, sharing an umbrella; they must work in offices near one another.

  It had been a drearier Sunday than normal, perhaps because this year it happened to be All Souls’ Day. He could have sworn there was still a smell of chrysanthemums in the air this morning. From their window they had seen the families heading to the cemetery, but neither of them had any relatives buried in Paris.

  On the corner of Boulevard Voltaire, where he was waiting for his bus, he felt even more morose when he saw one of those huge new models without a rear platform come lumbering up. He’d not only have to sit down now, he’d also have to put out his pipe.

  Everyone has days like that, don’t they?

  Roll on the end of those two years! No more having to wrap up in a scarf and set off on grim, rainy mornings through a Paris that today looked as black and white as a silent film.

  The bus was full of young people; some recognized him, while others took no notice.

  On the embankment, the rain was colder and driving in at more of an angle. He ducked into the vaulted, draughty entrance of the Police Judiciaire, made a dash for the stairs and then, the moment he recognized the place’s inimitable smell, the murky gleam of the lights that were already on, he felt sad at the thought that, almost before he knew it, his days of coming here every morning would be over.

  Old Joseph, who for mysterious reasons seemed exempt from retirement, gave him a conspiratorial nod and muttered, ‘Inspector Lapointe is waiting for you, detective chief inspector.’

  As usual on a Monday the waiting room and huge corridor were thronged with people. A few unfamiliar faces, two or three young women who seemed jarringly out of place, but mainly regulars who you’d periodically see waiting outside one door or other.

  He went into his office, hung up his overcoat, his hat, that scarf, deliberated whether to open the umbrella and put it to dry in a corner, as Madame Maigret recommended, then ended up leaving it with everything else in a corner of the cupboard.

  It was barely 8.30. Letters were waiting on his blotter. He went and opened the door of the inspectors’ office, signalled to Lucas, Torrence and two or three others.

  ‘Someone tell Lapointe I’m here.’

  Word would go around that the chief was in a foul mood, but that wasn’t true. Sometimes, looking back, it’s days when you’ve been gruff, gloomy, irritable that strike you as your happiest.

  ‘Morning, chief.’

  Lapointe was pale, and his eyes, although a little red from lack of sleep, were sparkling with pleasure. He was twitching with impatience.

  ‘That’s it! We’ve got him!’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the box room at the end of the corridor. Torrence is keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Four this morning.’

  ‘Has he talked?’

  ‘I sent down for some coffee, then breakfast for two around six. We’ve been chatting away like old friends.’

  ‘Go and get him.’

  This was quite a coup. Grégoire Brau, otherwise known as Patience or the Monk, had been working for years without anyone coming close to catching him.

  He had only been nabbed once, twelve years earlier, when he had overslept. He had done his time then picked up exactly where he had left off.

  He came into the office behind a cock-a-hoop Lapo
inte, who looked as if he had landed the biggest trout or pike of the year, and stood awkwardly in front of Maigret, who was immersed in some papers.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Maigret said.

  As he finished reading a letter, he added:

  ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Maigret.’

  ‘You may smoke.’

  He was a fat fellow of forty-three who must have been pudgy and doughy even when he was at school. He was fair-skinned, with pink cheeks that turned red at the drop of a hat, a bulbous nose, a double chin, a guileless-looking mouth.

  ‘So, they got you after all, eh?’

  ‘They got me.’

  Maigret had arrested him the first time, and they had often come across one another since, greeting each other without any hard feelings.

  ‘You’ve been at it again,’ Maigret went on, referring to a break-in at an apartment.

  Rather than deny it, the Monk smiled modestly. They couldn’t prove anything. And yet, even if he never left a fingerprint, his burglaries effectively all bore his signature.

  He worked alone, planning each job with incredible patience. He was the epitome of a quiet man, passionless, nerveless, no hidden vices.

  He spent most of his time in the corner of a bar, or café, or restaurant, apparently deep in a newspaper or drowsing, but actually with his ears peeled, catching every word that was being said around him.

  He was also a great reader of the weeklies, carefully studying their society pages and gossip columns, keeping himself exceptionally up to date with the movements of people in the public eye.

  And then the next thing anyone knew, the Police Judiciaire would receive a telephone call from a celebrity – an actor, say, or film star – who had just come back from Hollywood – or London, or Rome, or Cannes – to find his apartment had been burgled.

  Maigret wouldn’t have to hear the whole story before he asked:

  ‘What about the refrigerator?’

  ‘Cleaned out!’

  Ditto the drinks cabinet. And he could be sure that the bed had been slept in and the owner’s pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers put to good use.

  This was the Monk’s signature, an obsession he had acquired when he’d started out at the age of twenty-two, perhaps because in those days he really was hungry and longed to sleep in a decent bed. When he was certain that an apartment was going to be empty for several weeks, that there wouldn’t be any staff staying on, that the concierge hadn’t been instructed to air it, he’d break in without needing to use a jemmy because he knew all the locksmiths’ secrets.

  Once inside, rather than hurriedly rounding up everything of value – jewellery, paintings, ornaments – he would settle in for a while, generally until all the provisions in the apartment had been exhausted.

  As many as thirty empty tins had been found after one of his visits, as well as a considerable number of bottles, of course. He read, he slept, he used the bathroom with a sort of voluptuous delight, and the building’s other occupants wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  After which he would go home and resume his usual routine, only going out in the evening for a game of belote to one of the seedier bars on Avenue des Ternes, where, because he worked alone and never talked about his exploits, he was regarded with a mixture of respect and suspicion.

  ‘Did she write or did she ring you up?’

  The melancholy in the Monk’s voice as he asked this question recalled Maigret’s when he had left home a while ago.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know very well, Monsieur Maigret. They wouldn’t have got me otherwise. Your inspector,’ he turned to Lapointe, ‘was hiding on the stairs of the block before I got there, and I suppose he had a colleague in the street. Is that right?’

  ‘It is.’

  Lapointe had actually spent two nights on the stairs of the block in Passy where someone called Monsieur Ailevard had an apartment. This gentleman had gone to London for a fortnight, travel plans which had been announced in the newspapers, because he was involved with a film and an extremely famous film star.

  The Monk didn’t always rush to people’s places the moment they left. He bided his time, took all the necessary precautions.

  ‘I’m wondering how I missed your inspector. Anyway, that’ll teach me … Did she ring you?’

  Maigret shook his head.

  ‘Did she write to you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can show me the note, can you? Is it true that she had to disguise her writing?’

  She hadn’t even done that. Not that there was any point telling him.

  ‘I suspected this would happen one day, although I didn’t want to believe it. She’s a bitch, with all due respect, but I still can’t bring myself to be angry with her … At least I’ll have had two good years, eh?’

  He had never any romantic attachments for years, as far as anyone could tell. People would tease him about his weight, saying it wasn’t surprising he led such a chaste life.

  Then suddenly, in his early forties, he had set up house with a woman called Germaine, who was twenty years younger than him and recently to be seen soliciting on Avenue de Wagram.

  ‘Was it a registry office wedding?’

  ‘We had a church service too. She’s from Brittany. I suppose she’s already moved into Henri’s?’

  He was referring to a young pimp, Henri My Eye.

  ‘He’s moved into your apartment.’

  The Monk wasn’t outraged, wasn’t cursing his luck, just himself.

  ‘How long am I going to get?’

  ‘Two to five years. Has Inspector Lapointe taken your statement?’

  ‘He wrote down what I told him.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  He listened, frowning.

  ‘Repeat the name, please.’

  He reached for a notepad, wrote: Lachaume.

  ‘Quai de la Gare? Ivry? OK … Is there a doctor in attendance? The man’s definitely dead, is he?’

  The Monk had suddenly become less important, which he seemed to sense. Without needing to be asked, he got to his feet, saying:

  ‘I imagine you’ve got things to do …’

  Maigret turned to Lapointe.

  ‘Take him to the cells, then go to bed.’

  He opened the cupboard to get his overcoat and hat, then thought again and held out his hand to the fat man with the pink cheeks.

  ‘It’s not our fault, my friend.’

  ‘I know.’

  He didn’t put on the scarf. In the inspectors’ office, he chose Janvier, who had just got in and wasn’t working on anything yet.

  ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  ‘Lucas, telephone the prosecutor’s office. A man’s been killed, shot in the chest, on Quai de la Gare, Ivry. The name’s Lachaume. Lachaume Biscuits …’

  It brought back memories of his childhood in the countryside. In those days, in every badly lit village grocer’s where dried vegetables were sold alongside clogs and sewing thread, you’d always find cellophane-wrapped packets labelled: Lachaume Biscuits. There were Lachaume sweet butter biscuits and Lachaume wafers, both of which, as it happened, had the same slightly cardboardy taste.

  He hadn’t heard of them since. He hadn’t seen the calendars either, featuring a little boy with unnaturally ruddy cheeks and an idiotic smile eating a Lachaume wafer, and it was a rare event to find the name in faded letters on a wall somewhere deep in the country.

  ‘Tell Criminal Records too, of course.’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  Lucas already had the telephone in his hand. Maigret and Janvier headed downstairs.

  ‘Shall we take the car?’

  Maigret’s melancholy had evaporated in the humdrum atmosphere of the Police Judiciaire. Caught up in the routine of work, it didn’t occur to him to scrutinize his life or question himself.


  Sundays, on the other hand, are a menace. In the car, lighting a pipe that tasted good again, he asked, ‘Have you heard of Lachaume Biscuits?’

  ‘No, chief.’

  ‘You’re too young, it’s true.’

  Perhaps they hadn’t been sold in Paris either. There were plenty of products that were only made for the countryside. There were also brands that went out of fashion but hung on, catering for a particular clientele. He remembered drinks that were famous in his younger days but now could only be found in out-of-the-way establishments, far from any main road.

  After they crossed the bridge they couldn’t drive along the river because of the one-way system, so Janvier made a series of detours before they rejoined the Seine opposite Charenton. Across the water they could see the wine market and, to the left, a train was crossing an iron bridge over the river.

  In the old days this stretch of riverbank had been dotted with small detached houses and builder’s yards. Now it was all apartment blocks, six or seven storeys high, with shops and bistros on the ground floor, but there were still a few gaps here and there, the odd patch of waste ground, some workshops, two or three low houses.

  ‘What number?’

  Maigret told him, and they pulled up outside what must once have been an impressive house, with a three-storey brick and stone façade and a tall chimney at the back like a factory chimney. A car was parked at the front door. A policeman was pacing up and down on the pavement. It was hard to tell if they were in Ivry now or still in Paris; the street they had just passed probably marked the municipal border.

  ‘Good morning, detective chief inspector. The door isn’t locked. They’re expecting you upstairs.’

  The house had a carriage entrance with a green gate and a smaller door set in one of its panels. The two men found themselves in a vaulted entranceway rather like the one at Quai des Orfèvres, except that here it was blocked off at the other end by a frosted-glass door. One of the panes in the door was missing and had been replaced with a piece of cardboard.

  It was cold and damp. A door opened off on either side of the passage and Maigret, wondering which one to go through, chose the one on the right; clearly the correct one, since he found himself in a sort of hall with a broad staircase leading off it.