Maigret

by Georges Simenon

  ‘He hasn’t denied it.’

  ‘So what do you plan to do?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll start by spreading a net around them, that’s the best thing. From this evening, I’ll have each one of them followed. They’ll have to go somewhere, talk to people. We’ll question those people and—’

  ‘And in six months’ time Philippe will still be in prison.’

  ‘His lawyer intends to request his interim release. As he is only accused of manslaughter, he’s bound to obtain it.’

  Maigret could no longer feel his tiredness.

  ‘Another?’ suggested Amadieu, pointing to the glasses.

  ‘With pleasure.’

  Poor Amadieu! How uncomfortable he must have felt when he walked into the hotel lounge! By now, he’d had the time to regain his composure and adopt a deceptive air of confidence, and even to speak of the case with a certain casualness.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he added, taking a sip of Armagnac, ‘I wonder whether Cageot is actually the killer. I’ve been mulling over your hypothesis. Why wouldn’t he have given Audiat the job of shooting? He himself could have been hiding in the street—’

  ‘Audiat would never have retraced his steps to bump into my nephew and raise the alarm. He’d be likely to lose his bottle. He’s a nasty little thug but small fry.’

  ‘What about Eugène?’

  Maigret shrugged, not because he believed Eugène to be innocent, but because he would have found it awkward to implicate him. It was very vague. Fernande had something to do with it.

  Besides, Maigret was barely in the conversation. His pencil in his hand, he was doodling aimlessly on the marble table top. The room was hot. The Armagnac produced a mellow feeling of well-being, as if all his accumulated fatigue were gradually dissipating.

  Lucas came in with a young inspector and gave a start on seeing Maigret and Amadieu sitting side by side. Maigret winked at him across the room.

  ‘Why don’t you come over to HQ?’ suggested Amadieu. ‘I’ll show you the transcript of the interrogations.’

  ‘What’s the use?’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  He was on edge. What could be brewing behind Maigret’s stubborn brow? Already he was being slightly less cordial.

  ‘We mustn’t let our efforts undermine each other. The chief is of the same opinion as me and it’s he who advised me to reach an agreement with you.’

  ‘Well, aren’t we agreed?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the fact that Cageot killed Pepito and that it was probably he who killed Barnabé a fortnight earlier.’

  ‘Being agreed about it isn’t sufficient grounds to arrest him.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So nothing. Or rather, I will only ask one thing of you. I imagine it will be easy for you to get a summons against Cageot from Gastambide?’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then I’d like there to be an inspector on duty at Quai des Orfèvres with that summons in his pocket. As soon as I telephone him, he should come and meet me.’

  ‘Meet you where?’

  ‘Wherever I am! It would be better if instead of one summons, he has several. You never know.’

  Amadieu’s glum face had grown longer.

  ‘Fine,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll talk to the chief.’

  He called the waiter and paid for one round. Then he spent ages buttoning and unbuttoning his overcoat in the hope that Maigret would finally say something.

  ‘Well! I wish you every success.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

  ‘When do you think it will be?’

  ‘Perhaps later today. Perhaps not until tomorrow morning. Actually, I think it would be better if it were to happen tomorrow morning.’

  Just as his companion was heading off, Maigret had an afterthought.

  ‘And thank you for coming!’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Left on his own, Maigret paid for the second round, then paused at the table where Lucas and his colleague were sitting.

  ‘Any news, chief?’ asked Lucas.

  ‘Soon. Where will I be able to get hold of you at around eight tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I’ll be at Quai des Orfèvres. Unless you’d rather I came here.’

  ‘See you tomorrow here!’

  Outside, Maigret stopped a taxi and asked to be dropped off in Rue Fontaine. Night was falling. Lights went on in the windows. As they drove past the Tabac Fontaine, he asked the driver to slow down.

  In the little bar, the dozy girl was at the till, the owner behind the bar, while the waiter was wiping the tables. But there was no sign of Audiat, or Eugène or his friend from Marseille.

  ‘I bet they’re furious at being deprived of their game of belote this evening!’

  A few moments later, the taxi drew up opposite the Floria. Maigret asked the driver to wait, and pushed the half-open door.

  It was cleaning time. A single lamp was on, casting a wan light over the wall hangings and the red and green paintwork. The tablecloths had not yet been put on the unvarnished tables, and the musicians’ instruments lay scattered around the stage still in their cases.

  The overall effect was shabby and dismal. The office door, at the back, was open and Maigret had a fleeting glimpse of a woman’s shape. He walked past a waiter sweeping the floor and suddenly emerged into the bright light.

  ‘It’s you!’ exclaimed his sister-in-law.

  Her face was flushed and she became flummoxed.

  ‘I wanted to see the—’

  A young man was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. It was Monsieur Henry, the Floria’s new owner, or rather Cageot’s new front man.

  ‘This gentleman has been very kind—’ stammered Madame Lauer.

  ‘I wish I could have done more,’ apologized the young man. ‘Madame has told me that she’s the mother of the police officer who killed … I mean who’s accused of shooting Pepito. I know nothing about it. I took over the place the following day.’

  ‘Thank you again, monsieur. I can see that you understand what it’s like to be a mother.’

  She was expecting Maigret to read her the riot act. Once they were in the waiting taxi, she talked for the sake of talking.

  ‘You came by car? There’s a very good bus … I don’t mind if you smoke your pipe … I’m used to it …’

  Maigret gave the address of the hotel, then, on the way, he murmured in a strange voice:

  ‘This is what we’re going to do. We’ve got a long night ahead of us. Tomorrow morning, we must be fresh, our nerves steady and our minds alert. We can go to the theatre, how about that?’

  ‘To the theatre, while poor Philippe’s in prison?’

  ‘Bah! This will be his last night.’

  ‘Have you found out something?’

  ‘Not yet. Let me do as I see fit. The hotel is depressing. There’s nothing for us to do there.’

  ‘And I was wanting to take this opportunity to go and tidy Philippe’s room!’

  ‘He would be furious. A young man doesn’t want his mother going through his things.’

  ‘Do you think that Philippe has a young lady?’

  All her provincialism was distilled in these words. Maigret kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Of course not, silly goose! Sadly he hasn’t. Philippe is a real chip off the old block.’

  ‘I’m not certain that before Émile married me he—’

  It was like bathing in clear water. When they arrived at the hotel, Maigret booked seats at the Palais-Royal theatre, then, before dinner, he wrote a letter to his wife. He appeared to have forgotten all about Pepito’s murder and his nephew’s arrest.

  ‘You and I are going to paint the town red!’ he told his sister-in-law. ‘If you’re a good girl, I’ll even show you the Floria in full swing.’

  ‘I’m not dressed for that!’

  He kept his wor
d. After an elegant dinner in a restaurant on one of the Grands Boulevards – because he didn’t want to eat at the hotel – he took his sister-in-law to the theatre and enjoyed watching her laugh at the bedroom farce despite herself.

  ‘I feel bad at what you’re making me do,’ she sighed during the interval. ‘If Philippe were to know where his mother was right now!’

  ‘And what about Émile! I hope he’s not whispering sweet nothings to the maid.’

  ‘She’s fifty, poor thing.’

  It was harder to get her to agree to set foot in the Floria. She was already overwhelmed by the neon lights in the entrance to the nightclub. Maigret steered her towards a table by the bar, brushing against Fernande, who was there with Eugène and his sidekick from Marseille.

  As one might expect, there were smiles at the sight of the good woman being piloted by the former detective inspector.

  And Maigret was thrilled! It was as if that was what he had been hoping for! Like a decent provincial fellow out for a good time, he ordered champagne.

  ‘I’ll be tipsy!’ simpered Madame Lauer.

  ‘Good!’

  ‘Do you realize this is the first time I’ve set foot in a place like this?’

  She really was a babe in the woods! She was a paragon of moral and physical virtue!

  ‘Who’s that woman who keeps staring at you?’

  ‘That’s Fernande, a friend of mine.’

  ‘If I were in my sister’s shoes, I’d be worried. She looks lovesick.’

  It was true and yet it wasn’t. Fernande had been making eyes at Maigret, as if she rued losing the intimacy that had been disrupted. But she immediately clutched Eugène’s arm and made an exaggerated show of flirting with him.

  ‘She’s with a very handsome young man!’

  ‘The sad thing is that tomorrow the handsome young man will be in prison.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He’s one of the gangsters who got Philippe arrested.’

  ‘Him?’

  She couldn’t believe it. And it was worse when Cageot poked his head through the curtain to see how things were going, as he did every night.

  ‘You see that gentleman who looks like a lawyer?’

  ‘With the grey hair?’

  ‘Yes! Well, be careful. Try not to scream. He’s the murderer.’

  Maigret’s eyes were laughing as if he already had Cageot and the others at his mercy. Then he was laughing out loud so hard that Fernande turned round in surprise and frowned, anxious and wistful all of a sudden.

  A little later, she made her way to the toilets, glancing at Maigret as she walked past. He stood up to go and talk to her.

  ‘Have you got any news?’ she asked, almost spitefully.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Nothing. As you can see, we’re having a night out.’

  She watched Maigret closely and said after a silence:

  ‘Is he going to be arrested?’

  ‘Not straight away.’

  She stamped her high-heeled foot on the floor.

  ‘The love of your life?’

  But she was already marching off.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ she retorted.

  Madame Lauer was ashamed to be going to bed at two in the morning, while Maigret fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched his pillow, snoring as he had not done for a few days.

  9.

  At 7.50, Maigret dropped in to the hotel office just as the owner, who had just arrived, was reviewing the guest list with the night watchman. A bucket of dirty water stood in the middle of the corridor; there was a broom leaning up against the wall and Maigret, with the utmost seriousness, grabbed the broom and examined the handle.

  ‘May I use this?’ he asked the owner, who stammered:

  ‘Feel free …’

  Then he had second thoughts and asked anxiously:

  ‘Is your room not clean enough?’

  Maigret was smoking his first pipe of the day with unmitigated pleasure.

  ‘My room is fine!’ he replied, unperturbed. ‘It’s not the broom I’m interested in. I’d just like a little piece of the handle.’

  The cleaning woman, who had appeared and was wiping her hands on her blue apron, must have thought he had gone mad.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a little saw, would you?’ Maigret asked the night watchman.

  ‘Go on, Joseph,’ the owner said, ‘go and fetch a saw for Monsieur Maigret.’

  Thus the fateful day began on a comic note. It was another sunny morning. A chambermaid entered with a breakfast tray. The floor of the corridor had just been washed down. The postman came in and rummaged in his leather satchel.

  Maigret, broom in hand, was waiting for a saw.

  ‘There is a telephone in the lounge, I believe?’ he asked the owner.

  ‘Yes, there is, Monsieur Maigret. On the table to your left. I’ll connect you right away.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Don’t you want to make a call?’

  ‘No thank you. It’s not necessary.’

  He entered the lounge with his broom, while the cleaning woman declared:

  ‘I’d just like to say that it’s not my fault I’m standing here twiddling my thumbs. You’d better not yell at me for not finishing the lobby!’

  The night watchman returned with a rusty saw, which he had found in the basement. Meanwhile, Maigret reappeared with the broom, took the saw from him and began sawing off the end of the handle. He rested the broom on the desk. Sawdust fell on to the newly washed floor. The other end of the handle rubbed against the register while the owner looked on in dismay.

  ‘There! Thank you very much,’ said Maigret at length picking up the small round of wood which he had just sawn off and handing back the broom minus a few centimetres to the cleaning woman.

  ‘Is that what you needed?’ asked the hotel owner, keeping a straight face.

  ‘Exactly.’

  At the Chope du Pont-Neuf, where he met up with Lucas in the back room, cleaners and their buckets were everywhere, as at the hotel.

  ‘You know that the squad worked all night, chief. When Amadieu left you, he got it into his head to beat you to it, and put everyone on the case. I even know that you went to the Palais-Royal theatre with a lady.’

  ‘And then that I went to the Floria? Poor Amadieu! What about the others?’

  ‘Eugène was at the Floria too. I expect you saw him. At 2.45 he left with a tart.’

  ‘Fernande, I know. I bet he slept at her place in Rue Blanche.’

  ‘You’re right. He even left his car parked outside all night. It’s still there.’

  Maigret had raised an eyebrow, even though he wasn’t in love. The other morning, it was he who had been in her sun-drenched apartment. Fernande had sat there half naked drinking her café au lait and there had been an intimate sense of trust between them.

  It wasn’t jealousy, but he was not very fond of men like Eugène, whom he could picture now, still in bed, while Fernande fussed around making coffee and bringing it to him. What a condescending smile he must have on his lips!

  ‘He’ll get her to do anything he wants,’ he sighed. ‘Go on, Lucas.’

  ‘The Marseille sidekick hung around a couple of clubs and then went back to the Hôtel Alsina. He’ll be asleep at this hour because he never rises before eleven or midday.’

  ‘What about the little deaf man?’

  ‘His name is Colin. He lives with his wife – turns out he is lawfully married – in an apartment in Rue Caulaincourt. She makes a scene when he comes home late. She used to be the madam in his brothel.’

  ‘What’s he doing right now?’

  ‘He’s at the market. He’s the one who always does the shopping, wearing a long scarf around his neck and carpet slippers on his feet.’

  ‘Audiat?’

  ‘He went on a bar crawl and got drunk as a lord. He returned to his hotel in Rue Lepic at around one in the morning and the night watchman had to help
him up the stairs.’

  ‘And Cageot’s at home, I imagine?’

  On coming out of the Chope du Pont-Neuf, Maigret had the impression he could see his characters dotted around the Sacré-Cœur, whose white dome emerged from the Paris mist.

  For ten minutes he issued instructions to Lucas in an undertone, murmuring as he shook his hand:

  ‘Is everything clear? Are you sure you don’t need more than half an hour?’

  ‘Are you armed, chief?’

  Maigret patted his trouser pocket and hailed a passing taxi.

  ‘Rue des Batignolles!’

  The door of the concierge’s lodge was open and the gasman was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice with a northern accent as Maigret walked past.

  ‘Monsieur Cageot, please.’

  ‘On the mezzanine, to the left.’

  Maigret paused on the threadbare doormat to get his breath back. He yanked the heavy silk cord, which set off a soft tinkling inside the apartment, sounding like a child’s toy.

  Here too a broom was sweeping the floor, occasionally hitting a piece of furniture. A woman’s voice said:

  ‘Are you going to open the door?’

  Then there was the sound of muffled footsteps. A chain was taken off. A key turned in the lock and the door opened, but barely ten centimetres.

  It was Cageot who had opened the door. He was in his dressing gown, his hair tousled, his eyebrows bushier than ever. He was not surprised. He looked Maigret in the eye and snarled:

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘First of all, to come in.’

  ‘Are you here officially, with a proper warrant?’

  ‘No.’

  Cageot wanted to shut the door again, but Maigret had wedged his foot in the gap so it wouldn’t close.

  ‘Do you not think it would be better if we talked?’ he said.

  Cageot realized that he wouldn’t be able to close his door and his expression darkened.