Maigret

by Georges Simenon

  ‘There’s no trace of him for several years, but then he turned up again in Monte-Carlo, where he worked as a croupier. From that point he was a police informant, which didn’t prevent him from being mixed up in a gambling case that was never solved.

  ‘Finally, five years ago, in Paris, he was manager of a low-down dive called the Cercle de l’Est. The place was soon closed down, but Cageot wasn’t bothered. That’s the lot! Since then, he’s lived in an apartment in Rue des Batignolles where there’s just a cleaning woman. He’s still a regular visitor to the Ministry of the Interior in Rue des Saussaies and at Quai des Orfèvres. He owns at least three nightclubs which are managed by front men.’

  ‘Pepito?’ asked Maigret, who had taken notes.

  ‘Age twenty-nine. Born in Naples. Deported from France twice for drug trafficking. No other offences.’

  ‘Barnabé?’

  ‘Born in Marseille. Age thirty-two. Three convictions, including one for armed robbery.’

  ‘Has the stuff been found at the Floria?’

  ‘Nothing. No drugs, no documents. Pepito’s killer took the lot.’

  ‘What’s the name of the fellow who bumped into you and then called the police?’

  ‘Joseph Audiat. A former waiter who’s mixed up in horse-racing. I think his job is to collect the bets. He is of no fixed address and has his post delivered to the Tabac Fontaine.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Maigret, ‘I met your lady friend.’

  ‘My lady friend?’ echoed Philippe, turning beetroot.

  ‘A tall girl in a green silk dress. You bought her a drink at the Floria. We almost slept together.’

  ‘Well I didn’t!’ said Philippe. ‘If she told you otherwise—’

  Lucas had just come in and stood dithering in the doorway. Maigret beckoned him over.

  ‘Are you handling the case?’

  ‘Not exactly, chief. I just wanted to let you know that Cageot is at headquarters again. He arrived a quarter of an hour ago and shut himself up with Detective Chief Inspector Amadieu.’

  ‘Do you want a beer?’

  Lucas filled his pipe from Maigret’s tobacco pouch. It was the hour when the waiters were setting up, polishing the mirrors with whiting and scattering sawdust between the tables. The owner, already in a black jacket, was inspecting the hors-d’œuvres lined up on a serving table.

  ‘Do you think it’s Cageot?’ asked Lucas, dropping his voice and reaching for his beer.

  ‘I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘That’s no joke!’

  Philippe kept quiet, awed by his companions, who had worked together for nearly twenty years. From time to time, between puffs on their pipes, the two veterans would utter a few syllables.

  ‘Did he see you, chief?’

  ‘I went there and told him I’d get him. Waiter! Two more beers!’

  ‘He’ll never confess.’

  La Samaritaine delivery lorries rumbled past the windows, bright yellow in the sunshine. Long trams followed them, clanging their bells.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  Maigret shrugged. He had no idea. His beady eyes were staring beyond the bustle of the street at the Palais de Justice on the other side of the Seine. Philippe toyed with his pencil.

  ‘I have to run!’ sighed Sergeant Lucas. ‘I’ve got to investigate a kid from Rue Saint-Antoine, some Pole who’s been up to some funny business. Will you be here this afternoon?’

  ‘Most likely.’

  Maigret rose too. Philippe grew anxious:

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Go back to Quai des Orfèvres. We’ll meet back here for lunch.’

  Maigret boarded the omnibus and half an hour later he was climbing the stairs to Fernande’s apartment. It took her a few minutes to open the door, because she was still in bed. Sunlight was streaming into the room. The sheets on the unmade bed were bright white.

  ‘Already!’ exclaimed Fernande, clutching her pyjama top over her chest. ‘I was asleep! Wait a moment.’

  She went into the kitchen, lit the gas ring and filled a saucepan with water, talking all the while.

  ‘I went to the Tabac Fontaine, like you asked me to. Naturally they aren’t wary of me. Did you know that the owner also has a hotel in Avignon?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There was a table where some men were playing cards. Me, I acted like I’d been out all night and was tired.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice a small, dark man called Joseph Audiat?’

  ‘Wait! There was a Joseph, at any rate. He was telling the others how he’d spent the afternoon being questioned by an examining magistrate. But you know how it goes. They play. Belote! Rebelote! Your turn, Pierre … Then one of them says something … Someone answers from the bar … Pass! … Pass again! … Your go, Marcel! … The owner was playing too … There was an African … “Do you want a drink?” a tall, dark-haired man asked me, pointing to a chair near him. “I don’t mind if I do.” He showed me his hand. “In any case,” said the man they called Joseph, “I think it’s risky to involve a cop. Tomorrow, they’re going to bring me face to face with him. He looks like a right idiot, of course …” “Hearts trumps.” “ Quatrième haute!”’ Fernande interrupted herself:

  ‘Will you have a cup of coffee too?’

  And soon the smell of coffee filled the three-room apartment.

  ‘So anyway, I couldn’t suddenly start asking them about Cageot, could I? I said to them, “So do you fellows come here every night?” “Looks like it,” said the one sitting next to me. “And you didn’t hear anything, last night?”’

  Maigret, having removed his coat and hat, had half opened the window, allowing the street noises to enter the room. Fernande went on:

  ‘He gave me a funny look and he said: “Are you a bad girl?” I could see he was getting aroused. Still playing cards, he stroked my knee. And he went on: “Us lot, we don’t hear anything, you understand? Apart from Joseph, who saw what he had to see …” That made them all roar with laughter. What could I do? I didn’t dare move my leg away. “Spades again! Tierce haute and belote!” “He’s one hell of a guy!” said Joseph, who was drinking a hot toddy. But the fellow who was stroking my leg coughed then grumbled: “I’d rather he didn’t spend so much time with the cops, if you know what I mean.”’

  Maigret felt as if he were in the room. He could have put a name to almost each face. He already knew that the owner ran a brothel in Avignon. And the tall, dark-haired man must be the owner of the Cupidon, in Béziers, and of a brothel in Nîmes. As for the African, he belonged to a local jazz outfit.

  ‘They didn’t mention any names?’ Maigret asked Fernande, who was stirring her coffee.

  ‘No names. Two or three times they said the Lawyer. I thought they meant Cageot. He looks like a degenerate lawyer. But wait, I haven’t finished! Aren’t you hungry? It must have been three in the morning. You could hear them pulling down the shutters at the Floria. My neighbour, who was still rubbing my knee, was beginning to annoy me. That’s when the door opened and Cageot came in. He touched the brim of his hat, but he didn’t say a general hello.

  ‘Nobody looked up. You could feel they were all giving him shifty glances. The owner scooted over to the bar.

  ‘“Give me six Voltigeur cigars and a box of matches,” said Cageot.

  ‘Little Joseph didn’t bat an eyelid. He stared at the bottom of his toddy glass. Cageot lit a cigar, put the others in his jacket pocket, and looked for a note in his wallet. You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘The silence didn’t bother him. He turned round, looked at everyone, calmly, coolly, then touched his hat again and left.’

  As Fernande dunked her buttered bread in her coffee, her pyjama top had fallen open, revealing a pert breast.

  She must have been in her late twenties, but she had the body of a girl and her barely formed nipples were pale pink.

  ‘They didn’t say anything after he left?’ questioned Mai
gret who couldn’t help turning down the gas ring on which the kettle was beginning to sing.

  ‘They looked at each other and exchanged winks. The owner sat down again, sighing: “Is that all?” Joseph, who looked awkward, explained: “It’s not that he’s proud, you know!”’

  At this time of day, Rue Blanche was almost provincial. You could hear the clatter of the hooves of the horses harnessed to a heavy brewer’s dray.

  ‘The others sniggered,’ added Fernande. ‘The one who was groping my leg groaned: “It’s not that he’s proud, no! But he’s shrewd enough to land us all in it. I tell you, I’d like it better if he didn’t go to Quai des Orfèvres every day!”’

  Fernande had told her story taking care not to forget anything.

  ‘Did you go straight home?’

  ‘That wasn’t possible.’

  Maigret looked none too pleased.

  ‘Oh!’ she hastily added, ‘I didn’t bring him back here. It’s best not to show those people that you’ve got a few bits and pieces. He didn’t let me go until five o’clock.’

  She rose and went to get a breath of fresh air by the window.

  ‘What should I do now?’

  Maigret paced up and down, preoccupied.

  ‘What’s his name, your lover-boy?’

  ‘Eugène. There are two gold initials on his cigarette case: E.B.’

  ‘Do you want to go back to the Tabac Fontaine tonight?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  ‘Pay attention to the one called Joseph in particular, the little guy who fetched the police.’

  ‘He took no notice of me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do that. Just listen carefully to what he says.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have to clean my place up,’ said Fernande tying a kerchief over her hair.

  They shook hands. And as he descended the stairs, Maigret had no idea that there would be a raid in Montmartre, and that the police would swoop on the Tabac Fontaine and take Fernande to the station.’

  Cageot knew.

  ‘I should inform you of half a dozen women who are in an irregular situation,’ he was saying at that very moment to the chief of the vice squad.

  Fernande above all, who was going to be carted off in a meat wagon!

  4.

  Maigret had just finished shaving and was cleaning his razor when there was a knock on his door. It was nine in the morning. He had been awake since eight, but, for once, he had lain in bed for ages watching the sun’s slanting rays and listening to the sounds of the city.

  ‘Come in!’ he shouted.

  And he took a sip of the cold coffee stagnating at the bottom of his cup. Philippe’s hesitant footsteps echoed in the room and finally reached the bathroom.

  ‘Good morning, son.’

  ‘Good morning, Uncle.’

  Maigret knew from his voice that something was wrong. He buttoned up his shirt and looked at his nephew, who had red eyelids and puffy nostrils like a child who had been crying.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve been arrested!’

  Philippe said this as gloomily as if he were announcing that he would be going in front of a firing squad in five minutes.

  He held out a newspaper. Maigret glanced at it while continuing to get dressed.

  Despite Inspector Philippe Lauer’s denials, examining magistrate Gastambide reportedly decided to have him arrested this morning.

  ‘My photo’s splashed all over the front page of the Excelsior,’ Philippe added melodramatically.

  His uncle said nothing. There was nothing to be said. His braces dangling, slippers on his bare feet, he padded to and fro in the sunshine, hunting for his pipe, then his tobacco and finally a box of matches.

  ‘You didn’t drop by there this morning?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘I’ve come from Rue des Dames. I saw the paper when I was having my coffee and croissant in Boulevard des Batignolles.’

  It was an exceptional morning. The air was fresh, the sun joyful, and the intense, animated bustle of Paris a frenzied dance. Maigret opened the window and the room reverberated with the throbbing life of the riverbanks, while the slow-moving Seine shimmered in the sunlight.

  ‘Well, you have to go, my boy! What can I say?’

  He didn’t want to get all sentimental over this kid who had forsaken his green valley in the Vosges for the corridors of the Police Judiciaire!

  ‘Naturally, it won’t be as cushy as home!’

  His mother was Madame Maigret’s sister, and that said it all. She mollycoddled the boy: Philippe will be home soon … Philippe will be hungry … Have Philippe’s shirts been ironed? …

  And tasty little dishes, home-made desserts and liqueurs! And sprigs of lavender in the linen cupboard!

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Philippe while his uncle adjusted his detachable collar. ‘Last night I went to the Floria.’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘Because I advised you not to go there. Now what have you done?’

  ‘Nothing. I chatted with that girl, Fernande, you know. She hinted that she was working with you and that she had some mission to carry out at the café on the corner of Rue de Douai. Since I was leaving anyway, I followed her, instinctively. It was on my way home. But on her way out of the café, she was yelled at by inspectors from the vice squad and bundled into a meat wagon.’

  ‘You tried to step in, I’ll bet!’

  Philippe looked shamefaced.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘That they knew what they were doing.’

  ‘Off you go now,’ sighed Maigret, hunting for his tie. ‘Don’t worry.’

  He put his hands on Philippe’s shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks and, to cut the scene short, suddenly pretended to be very busy. Only when the door had opened and closed behind Philippe again did he look up, hunch his shoulders and mutter a few garbled syllables.

  The first thing he did once on the riverbank was to buy the Excelsior from a news kiosk and look at the photo which was indeed on the front page with the caption:

  Inspector Philippe Lauer, accused of killing Pepito Palestrino, who was under surveillance.

  Maigret walked slowly over the Pont-Neuf. The previous evening, he had not gone inside the Floria but had paid a visit to Rue des Batignolles to sniff around Cageot’s place. He lived in a residential building dating from the 1880s, like most of the apartment blocks in the neighbourhood. The corridor and the staircase were poorly lit. It was easy to imagine the dark, dismal apartments, grubby curtains at the windows and furniture with faded velvet upholstery.

  Cageot’s apartment was on the mezzanine. There was no one around at this time of day and Maigret had entered the building as if he were a regular visitor. He wandered up to the fourth floor and then came back down again.

  There was a safety lock on Cageot’s door, otherwise Maigret might have given in to temptation. He walked past the lodge and the concierge, face pressed up against the window, stared after him for a while.

  What could that matter? Maigret crossed almost the entire city on foot, his hands in his pockets, the same thoughts going round and round in his head.

  Somewhere – at the Tabac Fontaine or elsewhere – there was a small group of crooks who were happily going about their illicit business. Pepito had been one of them. Barnabé too.

  And one by one, Cageot, the big boss, was eliminating them, or having them eliminated.

  Gangland killings! The police would hardly have bothered about them if that idiot Philippe—

  Maigret had arrived at Quai des Orfèvres. Two inspectors on their way out greeted him with unconcealed surprise, and he went through the entrance, crossed the courtyard and walked past the vice squad.

  Upstairs it was time for the morning briefing. In the vast corridor, fifty police officers stood in huddles, speaking in loud voices and passing on intelligence and records. Sometimes an office door opened and a name was yelled and s
ummoned inside.

  Maigret’s arrival caused a few moments’ silence and unease. But he sauntered past the groups looking perfectly at home, and the officers resumed their confabs to keep up appearances.

  To the right was the chief’s waiting room furnished with red velvet armchairs. Sitting in a corner, a lone visitor was waiting. Chin cupped in his hands, Philippe stared fixedly ahead of him.

  Maigret walked off in the opposite direction, reached the end of the corridor and knocked at the last door.

  ‘Come in!’ answered a voice from inside.

  And everyone saw him enter Detective Chief Inspector Amadieu’s office, hat in hand.

  ‘Hello, Maigret.’

  ‘Hello, Amadieu.’

  They touched fingertips as they used to do when they saw each other every morning. Amadieu signalled to an inspector to leave, then murmured:

  ‘Did you want to talk to me?’

  Maigret perched on the edge of the desk in a familiar pose and picked up a box of matches from the table to light his pipe.

  His colleague had pushed back his chair and tilted it backwards.

  ‘How’s country life?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How are things here?’

  ‘Still the same. I have to see the chief in five minutes.’

  Maigret pretended not to know what that meant and began unbuttoning his overcoat, slowly and deliberately. He was very much at home in this office, which had been his for ten years.

  ‘Are you worried about your nephew?’ blurted out Amadieu, who was unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘I want you to know that I’m even more concerned than you are. I’m the one who’s carrying the can. It’s gone all the way to the top, you know. The minister himself sent a note to the chief. I’m not even involved any more. It’s the examining magistrate who’s in charge. Gastambide was there in your day, wasn’t he?’

  The telephone rang. Amadieu held the receiver to his ear and muttered:

  ‘… Yes, chief … Very good, chief … In a few minutes … I’m not alone … Yes … That’s correct …’