‘Yes, I’m listening.’
‘I wouldn’t have called you, only, after you left last night, my wife told me the story of the young man.’
‘Which young man?’
‘The young man and the revolver. It seems Madame Maigret told my wife that yesterday morning—’
‘Yes. So, what is it?’
‘Lagrange would be furious if he knew I was alerting you. I found him in a queer state. In the first place, he let me knock several times at the door without answering, and I was getting concerned because the concierge had said he was at home. In the end he opened the door, barefoot, in his nightshirt, looking haggard, and he seemed relieved to see that it was me.
‘“I apologize about last night,” he said, going back to bed. “I felt ill. I’m still not feeling well. Did you mention me to the chief inspector?”’
‘And what did you say?’ Maigret asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I took his pulse and his blood pressure. He was looking very poorly. He looked, in fact, as if he was in shock. The lodgings were very untidy. Hyour children live with youe hadn’t had anything to eat, not even had a cup of coffee. I asked him if he was alone, and he immediately took fright.
‘“Are you afraid I might have a heart attack, is that it?” he asked.
‘“No, no. But I was just a bit surprised—”
‘“At what?”
‘“Don’t your children live with you?”
‘“Only my youngest son. My daughter left home when she was twenty-one. And the older boy is married.”
‘“The younger one is at work, is he?”
‘Then he began to cry, and I got the impression that this big fat man was crumpling up like a pricked balloon.
‘“I don’t know,” he sobbed. “He’s not here. He didn’t come home.”
‘“Since when?”
‘“I don’t know. I’m alone, I’m going to die on my own.”
‘“Where does your son work?”
‘“I don’t even know if he has a job, He never tells me anything. He went out . . .”’
Maigret was listening with a serious expression.
‘And that’s all?’
‘More or less. I tried to reassure him. He was pathetic. As a rule, he keeps up appearances or tries to. Seeing him in these sordid lodgings, lying sick in a bed that hadn’t been made for days—’
‘Is his son in the habit of spending the night away from home?’
‘No, from what I gathered. It would be a coincidence, of course, if it turned out to be this young man who—’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Nothing for the moment. Is the father genuinely sick?’
‘As I said, he looks as if he’s in shock. His heart’s not too good. He’s lying there in bed, sweating away, and terrified he’s going to die.’
‘You did the right thing phoning me, Pardon.’
‘I was rather afraid you’d laugh at me.’
‘I didn’t know my wife had told anyone about the revolver.’
‘Have I put my foot in it?’
‘Not at all.’
He buzzed the office boy.
‘Nobody waiting to see me?’
‘No, sir. Apart from the madman.’
‘Send him to Lucas.’
This was a regular visitor, a harmless madman who came along every week to offer his services to the police.
Maigret still hesitated. Out of human respect, truth be told. This story, if you looked at it one way, might indeed seem rather ridiculous.
Once on the embankment, he was on the point of borrowing one of the police drivers, then, still out of a kind of modesty, decided to go to Rue Popincourt by taxi. That made it less official. And that way, there wouldn’t be anyone to laugh at him.
THE BEGINNING
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First published in French as Maigret, Lognon et les gangsters by Presses de la Cité 1952
This translation first published 2017
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1952
Translation copyright © William Hobson, 2017
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-141-98289-2
Maigret, Lognon and the Gangsters Page 16
