Maigret Takes a Room

by Georges Simenon

  ‘He hopes he will hit the jackpot?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, as if she were talking about some innocent childhood enthusiasm. Then she added:

  ‘He’s had no luck. Mostly he’s found title deeds that are impossible to sell or business documents. One time he did find a large sum of money, large enough to allow him to live in peace for the rest of his days, but that time Boissier arrested him.’

  ‘Were you with him? Do you act as his lookout?’

  ‘No. He didn’t want that. In the beginning he’d tell me where he was doing the job, and I’d arrange it so that I was in the vicinity. When he realized, he didn’t confide in me any more.’

  ‘He’s worried you might be caught?’

  ‘Maybe. But probably for superstitious reasons as well. You see, even though we live together, he’s essentially a lone wolf; he can go two days without saying a single word. When I see him go out in the evening with his bicycle, I know what he’s up to.’

  That was a detail that had stuck in Maigret’s mind. Some newspapers had dubbed Alfred Jussiaume the ‘burglar with the bike’.

  ‘He has this idea that a man riding a bicycle at night will be inconspicuous, especially if he has a toolbox over his shoulder. People will think that he’s on his way to work. You see that I’m talking to you as a friend here.’

  Maigret again wondered what she had come to his office for. When she took out another cigarette, he offered her a light.

  ‘Today’s Thursday. The night of Tuesday to Wednesday, Alfred went out on a job.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was doing?’

  ‘He’s been going out at the same time for a few nights. That’s usually a give-away. Before breaking into a house or an office, he sometimes spends a week watching the premises to get to know the habits of the people there.’

  ‘And to make sure no one will be around?’

  ‘No. That doesn’t bother him. I think he even prefers to work when someone is about rather than when the place is empty. He can move around without making a sound. Loads of times he’s slipped into bed next to me at night and I hadn’t even noticed he’d come home.’

  ‘Do you know where he was working the night before last?’

  ‘I just know that it was somewhere in Neuilly. And I only discovered that by accident. The day before, when he got home, he told me that the police had asked to see his papers; they must have thought he was up to no good, because they stopped him at the Bois de Boulogne, near the spot where women go to pick up trade.

  ‘“Where was that?” I asked him.

  ‘“Behind the Botanical Garden. I was on my way back from Neuilly.”

  ‘So the night before last, when he went off with his tools, I realized that he was off on a job.’

  ‘Had he been drinking?’

  ‘He doesn’t drink or smoke. I wouldn’t allow it. He lives in fear of having a fit and he is always deeply ashamed when it happens to him in the middle of the street, with lots of people gathering round and feeling sorry for him. Before he left he told me:

  ‘“I think this one will be our ticket to the country.”’

  Maigret had started taking notes, and surrounding them with doodles.

  ‘What time did he leave Quai de Jemmapes?’

  ‘Around eleven in the evening, like on the previous days.’

  ‘So he must have got to Neuilly at about midnight.’

  ‘Probably. He never cycles very fast. On the other hand, there’s not much traffic at that time of night.’

  ‘When did you see him again?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘And did you think something must have happened to him?’

  ‘He telephoned me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At five in the morning. I wasn’t asleep. I was worried. He always has this fear of having a fit in the street, but I always think it could happen while he is on a job, do you understand? I heard the telephone ring in the bar downstairs. Our room is directly above it. The bar owners didn’t get up, so I guessed it was for me and went down. I could tell from his voice that there had been a hitch. He was whispering:

  ‘“Is that you?”

  ‘“Yes.”

  ‘“Are you alone?”

  ‘“Yes. Where are you?”

  ‘“Next to Gare du Nord, in a little café.

  ‘“Listen, Tine” – he always calls me Tine – “I have to make myself scarce for a while.”

  ‘“Were you spotted?”

  ‘“That’s not it. I don’t know. A guy saw me, but I don’t think he was from the police.”

  ‘“Do you have the money?”

  ‘“No, it happened before I finished.”

  ‘“What happened?”

  ‘“I was working on the lock when my torch lit up a face in a corner of the room. I thought someone had come in without a sound and was looking at me. But then I noticed that the eyes were dead.”’

  She observed Maigret.

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t lying. If he had killed someone, he would have told me. I’m not spinning you a line. I could tell he was close to fainting at the other end of the phone. He is so afraid of death …’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t give any detail. He seemed in a hurry to hang up. He was afraid of being overheard. He told me he was going to catch a train a quarter of an hour later …’

  ‘For Belgium?’

  ‘Probably, as he was next to Gare du Nord. I checked a timetable. There is a train at five forty-five.’

  ‘And you don’t know which café he was ringing from?’

  ‘I wandered round the area yesterday, asking questions, but drew a blank. They must have thought I was a jealous wife, because no one wanted to tell me anything.’

  ‘So basically all he told you was that there was a dead body in the room where he was working?’

  ‘I got a bit more out of him. He said it was a woman, and that her chest was covered with blood, and that she was holding a telephone receiver in her hand.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. Just as he was about to get away – and I can just imagine the state he was in! – a car pulled up outside the gate—’

  ‘He actually said “gate”?’

  ‘Yes, I distinctly remember him using the word. It struck me. Someone got out and headed for the door. While the man came into the hallway, Alfred slipped out of the house through the window.’

  ‘And his tools?’

  ‘He left them behind. He had cut out a windowpane to get in. I’m sure of that, because that’s what he always does. I think he would do it even if the door was open, because he’s a bit of an obsessive, or maybe just superstitious.’

  ‘So he wasn’t seen?’

  ‘Yes, he was. When he ran across the garden.’

  ‘He mentioned a garden too?’

  ‘I’m not making this up. I’m saying that as he was running across the garden someone looked out of the window and shone an electric torch on him, probably Alfred’s own torch, which he hadn’t managed to pick up. He leaped on to his bike and rode off without turning round, right down to the Seine – I don’t know where exactly – and threw his bike into the river, in case it would help identify him. He didn’t dare come home. He made his way to Gare du Nord on foot and telephoned me and begged me to say nothing. I pleaded with him not to run away. I tried reasoning with him. In the end he promised to write to me poste restante to tell me where he was so that I could join him.’

  ‘Has he written yet?’

  ‘There hasn’t been enough time for a letter to arrive. I went to the post office this morning. I’ve been thinking about it for the last twenty-four hours. I bought all the newspapers, expecting to read a report about a murdered woman.’

  Maigret picked up the phone and rang the police station at Neuilly.

  ‘Hello! Police Judiciaire here. Have you had any murder recorded in the last twenty-four hours?’

&n
bsp; ‘Just a moment. I will hand you over to the secretary. I’m just the orderly.’

  Maigret made absolutely sure:

  ‘No bodies found on the public highway? No night calls? No bodies fished out of the Seine?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, sir.’

  ‘No one reported a gunshot?’

  ‘No one.’

  La Grande Perche waited patiently, like someone on a social visit, her hands joined and resting on her bag.

  ‘You understand why I came to see you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘At first, I thought that perhaps the police had seen Alfred, in which case his bicycle alone would have given him away. Then there are the tools that he left behind. Now that he’s fled over the border no one will believe his story. And … he is no safer in Belgium or Holland than he is in Paris. I’d rather see him in prison for attempted burglary, even if it means he goes down for another five years, than to see him accused of murder.’

  ‘The problem is,’ said Maigret, ‘that there is no corpse.’

  ‘You think he made it up, or that I made it up?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘It will be easy for you to find the house where he did the job that night. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m sure you will think of it yourself. It’s almost certain the safe is one that he installed himself. Planchart surely have a list of their clients. There can’t be many in Neuilly who bought a safe from them at least seventeen years ago.’

  ‘Did Albert have any other girlfriends apart from you?’

  ‘Ah! I should have seen that one coming. I’m not the jealous type, and even if I was I wouldn’t be telling you lies just to get my revenge, if that’s what you’re thinking. He doesn’t have a girlfriend because he doesn’t want one, the poor man. If he did, I’d be able to fix him up with whatever he wanted.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t have much fun in his life.’

  ‘Do you have any money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll get by, you know me. I’m only here to tell you that Freddie didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘If he wrote to you, would you show me the letter?’

  ‘You’ll read it before me. Now that you know he said he’d write to me poste restante, you’ll monitor all the post offices in Paris. You forget that I know how things work.’

  She had stood up, very tall; she looked at him, sitting at his desk, from head to toe.

  ‘If everything I’ve heard about you is true, there is a chance that you will believe me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because otherwise you’d be a fool. And you aren’t. You’re going to telephone Planchart.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you keep me informed?’

  He considered her without replying and realized that, despite himself, there was a smile of amusement playing about his lips.

  ‘Please yourself, then,’ she sighed. ‘I could be of use to you. No matter how long you’ve been in this game, there are still things that people like us know better than you.’

  This ‘us’ obviously referred to a whole world of people, the one that La Grande Perche belonged to, living on the other side of the barrier.

  ‘If Inspector Boissier wasn’t on holiday, I’m sure he would back up everything I have told you about Alfred.’

  ‘He isn’t on holiday. He leaves tomorrow.’

  She opened her bag and took out a piece of paper.

  ‘I’ll leave you the phone number of the bar downstairs from us. If you ever need to come and see me, I promise you I won’t strip off. Nowadays I prefer to keep my dress on!’

  There was just a slight hint of bitterness in her voice. But then, a moment later she was poking fun at herself:

  ‘Much better for all concerned!’

  It was only after he had closed the door behind her that Maigret realized that he had quite naturally shaken the hand that she had offered to him. The wasp was still buzzing round just below the ceiling, as if looking for a way out, completely oblivious of the wide-open windows. Madame Maigret had said this morning that she would be going to the flower market and asked him, if he was free around midday, to meet her there. It was midday. He hesitated, leaned out of the window, from where he saw the splashes of vivid colours behind the parapet of the embankment.

  Then he picked up the phone with a sigh.

  ‘Ask Boissier to come and see me.’

  Seventeen years had elapsed since the farcical events of Rue de la Lune, and Maigret was now an important person at the head of the murder squad. A funny notion came into his head, an almost childish craving. He lifted the phone again.

  ‘Brasserie Dauphine, please.’

  At the exact moment that Boissier was coming through the door, he said:

  ‘Send me up a Pernod, please.’

  Then, seeing the inspector with large rings of sweat under the arms of his shirt, he added:

  ‘Make that two. Two Pernods. Thank you.’

  Boissier, a true southerner, who was from Provence, twitched his blue-black moustache with pleasure and went to sit on the window-sill, where he mopped his brow.

  THE BEGINNING

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  First published in French as Maigret en meublé by Presses de la Cité 1951

  This translation first published 2016

  Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1951

  Translation copyright © Shaun Whiteside, 2016

  GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm

  MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited

  All rights reserved

  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: 978–0–141–98135–2