Maigret's Revolver

by Georges Simenon

  Maigret knew the neighbourhood, which was not far from his own, and where there were many similar buildings. In the courtyard at his place in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, there was still an outdoor lavatory without a seat but with the door always ajar, as if in the country.

  He went up the three floors slowly, pressed an electric bell and heard it ring inside. Like Pardon, he had to wait. And like him, he finally heard some faint sounds, the slap of bare feet on the floor as someone approached cautiously, then, finally, he could have sworn, some laboured breathing, very close to him, behind the door. Nobody opened it. He rang the bell again. Nothing moved this time and, stooping down, he could see an eye shining through the keyhole.

  He coughed, wondering whether to announce his name, then, just as he was opening his mouth, a voice said:

  ‘Just a moment, please.’

  More footsteps coming and going, and at last the click of a lock followed by a bolt being drawn back. In the half-open doorway, a large man in a dressing gown was looking at him.

  ‘Was it Pardon who told you . . . ?’ he stammered.

  The dressing gown was old and shabby, as were the bedroom slippers. The man was unshaven and his hair was dishevelled.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  The other man made a sign indicating that he had recognized him.

  ‘Come in. My apologies . . .’

  He did not say what the apologies were for. They stepped directly into a cluttered sitting room, in which Lagrange seemed hesitant to remain, and Maigret, pointing to the open door of the bedroom, said:

  ‘You can go back to bed, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, I will, thank you.’

  The sunlight was shining into this apartment, very different from others of its kind and rather resembling an encampment, without Maigret being able to think quite why.

  ‘I do apologize,’ the man repeated, slipping into the rumpled bed.

  He was breathing with difficulty. His face was shining with sweat and his large eyes darted here and there. Maigret was not really at ease either.

  ‘Do sit down, on that chair.’

  Then, seeing that there was a pair of trousers lying on it, Lagrange once more apologized.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Maigret wondered what to do with the trousers, finally dropping them at the end of the bed, then began to speak in a deliberately firm voice.

  ‘Doctor Pardon had told us last night that we would be having the pleasure of meeting you.’

  ‘Yes, I did think—’

  ‘But you were in bed?’

  He saw that the other man was hesitating.

  ‘In bed, er, yes.’

  ‘When did you begin to feel unwell?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday morning?’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  ‘Your heart?’

  ‘Everything. Pardon’s been treating me for a long time. But yes, the heart as well.’

  ‘Are you worried about your son?’

  Lagrange looked at him, as the fat schoolboy once must have looked at a teacher when he did not know what to answer.

  ‘Didn’t he come home?’

  Another hesitation.

  ‘No . . . not this time.’

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  Maigret was trying to adopt the casual tones of a man who had just dropped in for a visit. Lagrange, for his part, hazarded a would-be polite smile.

  ‘Yes, I had said to Pardon—’

  ‘Was it because of your son?’

  He seemed astonished all at once, and repeated:

  ‘Because of my son?’

  Then immediately he shook his head.

  ‘No. I didn’t know then that—’

  ‘You didn’t know that he was going away?’

  Lagrange corrected him, as if the expression was too categorical.

  ‘He hasn’t come home.’

  ‘Since when? Has he been gone for a few days?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So since yesterday morning, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had you quarrelled?’

  Lagrange was suffering, yet Maigret wanted to push the questions as far as he could.

  ‘No, Alain and I have never had a quarrel.’

  He had said that with a kind of pride, something Maigret did not miss.

  ‘What about your other children?’

  ‘They don’t live here any more.’

  ‘But before they left?’

  ‘It wasn’t the same thing with them.’

  ‘I presume you would be glad if we could trace your son?’

  Signs of panic again.

  ‘What are you proposing to do?’ the other man asked.

  Every now and again, he seemed to have spurts of energy that made him seem almost normal, then he would suddenly collapse limply back on the bed. He went on:

  ‘No! It’s not necessary, I think it’s better if you don’t—’

  ‘But you’re worried?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re afraid of dying?’

  ‘I’m a sick man. I can’t go on. I—’

  He put his hand to his heart, and appeared to be feeling for its beating with anxiety.

  ‘Do you know where your son works?’

  ‘Not just recently. I didn’t want the doctor to tell you about all this.’

  ‘And yet a couple of days ago, you were insisting that he arrange for you to meet me.’

  ‘I insisted?’

  ‘You wanted to talk to me about something, then, is that right?’

  ‘I was curious to meet you.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  This was the fifth time at least that he had apologized.

  ‘I’m a sick man, very sick. That’s all, nothing else.’

  ‘But your son has disappeared.’

  Lagrange looked impatient.

  ‘Perhaps he just did the same as his sister.’

  ‘And what did she do?’

  ‘As soon as she reached twenty-one, the very same day, she left home, without a word, taking all her belongings with her.’

  ‘With a man?’

  ‘No. She works in a lingerie shop, in the Arcades des Champs-Élysées, and she lodges with a woman friend.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And you have another son, older?’

  ‘Philippe, yes. He’s married.’

  ‘And you don’t think that Alain might have gone to him?’

  ‘They don’t see each other. There’s nothing of any concern here, as I said. It’s just that I’m ill and alone, and I’m ashamed that you’ve been put to trouble. Pardon shouldn’t have told you. I wonder now why I ever said anything to him about Alain. I expect it was because I was feverish. Perhaps I still am. Don’t stay here, please. The place is a mess, and it must reek of sickness. I can’t even offer you a drink.’

  ‘You don’t have anyone who comes in to do the housework?’

  Lagrange was evidently lying when he replied:

  ‘She hasn’t turned up.’

  Maigret did not dare ask if he had any money. It was very warm in the bedroom, and there was a stale and unpleasant smell.

  ‘Would you like me to open a window?’

  ‘No, no, that would make it too noisy. I’ve got a headache. In fact, I’m aching all over.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if you were transferred to hospital?’

  This word alarmed him.

  ‘No, absolutely not! I want to stay here.’

  ‘Waiting for your son?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  It was curious. At one moment, Maigret felt pity for this man, the next he felt only irritation and had a sense that the whole thing was an act. Perhaps the man really was ill, but not, it seemed to the inspector, to the extent that he needed to huddle into his bed like a huge caterpillar, not to the extent
that his eyes were full of tears and his lips quivering, like a baby who is about to start crying.

  ‘Tell me, Lagrange—’

  And as he paused, he intercepted a suddenly more determined expression, one of those sharp looks that women in particular dart at you covertly, when they think you have found them out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you sure that when you asked Pardon to invite you round to meet me, you didn’t have something you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘No, I swear, it was just a sort of passing remark . . .’

  He was lying: that was why he felt the need to swear to it. Like a woman again.

  ‘And you have nothing you can tell me that would help us find your son?’

  There was a chest of drawers in the corner and Maigret, standing up, went over to it, feeling the other man’s eyes glued to him.

  ‘Still, I’m just going to ask you to let me borrow a photograph of him.’

  Lagrange was about to reply that he didn’t have one. Maigret was so sure of himself that with an almost reflex movement he opened one of the drawers.

  ‘In here?’

  There was a bit of everything in there, keys, an old wallet, a cardboard box full of buttons, some papers in disorder, gas and electricity bills.

  ‘Give me that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wallet.’

  Fearing that the inspector would look inside it himself, Lagrange summoned up the strength to lean on his elbow.

  ‘Pass it to me, I think there’s a photo from last year.’

  He was looking frantic.

  His thick fingers fumbled. From a little pocket, where he clearly knew he would find it, he pulled out a photograph.

  ‘You’re the one who’s insisting. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong. There is no need to announce anything in the newspapers. I don’t want anything done.’

  ‘I’ll bring it back to you this evening or tomorrow.’

  That frightened him again.

  ‘There’s no hurry.’

  ‘How will you manage for food?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I don’t need anything.’

  ‘What about this evening?’

  ‘I’ll probably feel better by then, so I’ll be able to go out.’

  ‘What if you don’t feel better?’

  The man was on the brink of bursting into tears from stress and impatience, and Maigret hadn’t the heart to impose on him any longer.

  ‘Just one question. Where was the last workplace of your son Alain?’

  ‘I don’t know the name. It was some office in Rue Réaumur.’

  ‘What kind of office?’

  ‘Advertising. Yes, that’s it, it must be an advertising agency.’

  He made as if to get up to see his visitor to the door.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself. Good day, Monsieur Lagrange.’

  ‘Goodbye, inspector. Please don’t hold this against me.’

  Maigret almost asked:

  ‘Hold what against you?’

  But what was the point? He stood still for a moment on the landing, relighting his pipe, and heard the bare feet on the floor, the key turning in the lock, and the bolt being shot, and perhaps too a sigh of relief.

  As he was passing the concierge’s lodge, he saw her head framed in the window, hesitated, then stopped.

  ‘It might be a good idea if, as the doctor suggested, you were to go up now and then to see if he needs anything. He really is ill.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t ill last night, when I thought he was doing a moonlight flit!’

  It had been the merest of chances. Maigret, who had been on the point of walking away, frowned and moved closer.

  ‘He went out last night?’

  ‘He was even strong enough to carry out a big trunk, with the help of a taxi-driver.’

  ‘And you spoke to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About ten o’clock. I hoped he really was moving out, so the apartment would be free.’

  ‘And you heard him come back?’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Of course. He’s up there now, isn’t he?’

  ‘With his trunk?’

  ‘No.’

  Maigret was too near home to take a taxi. Passing in front of a café, he remembered yesterday’s pastis, which had seemed to chime so well with the warmth of early summer, so he had a glass at the counter, gazing without seeing them at the workmen in white overalls drinking alongside him.

  As he crossed his own boulevard, he looked up and saw Madame Maigret coming and going in their apartment with the windows open. She must have seen him as well. At any rate, she recognized his step on the stairs, since the door opened as he reached it.

  ‘Nothing’s happened to him, has it?’

  She was still thinking about the young man of the day before, and her husband took the photo from his pocket and showed it to her.

  ‘Is that him?’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Yes, of course it’s him. Is he . . .’

  She must already be imagining the young man was dead, and she looked devastated.

  ‘No, no, he’s still on the loose somewhere. I’ve just been visiting his father.’

  ‘Is that the man the doctor was talking about yesterday?’

  ‘Lagrange, yes.’

  ‘And what did he have to say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So you still don’t know why he took your revolver?’

  ‘To use it, probably.’

  He telephoned the Police Judiciaire, but there had been no report of anything that might concern Alain Lagrange. He ate his lunch quickly, took a taxi to Quai des Orfèvres, and went straight up to the photographic department.

  ‘Print me off as many copies as we need to circulate to the whole of the Paris police.’

  He almost changed his mind and considered circulating the photo throughout France, but wasn’t that to give too much importance to this case? What troubled him was that nothing had actually happened, except that his automatic had been taken.

  A little later he called Lucas into his office. Maigret had taken off his jacket and was smoking his largest pipe.

  ‘I want you to check out the taxi-drivers who work nights in the Popincourt neighbourhood. There’s a rank on Place Voltaire. It must be that one. At this time of day, the night-time drivers will mostly be at home.’

  ‘What do I ask them?’

  ‘Whether last night at about ten p.m. any of them loaded a large trunk from a building in Rue Popincourt. I want to know where it was taken.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Ask as well if he took his fare back again to Rue Popincourt.’

  ‘OK, chief.’

  By three o’clock, the radio-cars were already in possession of the photograph of Alain Lagrange; by four o’clock, it arrived at the police stations and substations with the comment: ‘Caution! This man is armed.’ By six o’clock, all the Parisian officers coming on shift would have copies in their pockets.

  As for Maigret, he was not sure what to do next. Some kind of inhibition was preventing him from taking this matter seriously, and yet at the same time he was ill at ease in his office. It seemed to him that he was wasting time when he ought to have been taking action.

  He would have liked to have a long conversation with Pardon about the Lagrange family, but at this time of day the doctor’s waiting room would be full of patients. He would feel awkward at interrupting a consultation. Nor did he really know what questions he would ask.

  He leafed through the telephone directory and found three advertising agencies in Rue Réaumur, noting them down almost automatically in his jotter.

  ‘Nothing for me, chief?’ Torrence came to ask him a little later.

  If it hadn’t been for that, he would not have asked him to check the agencies.

  ‘Telephone these three places to ask w
hich one has employed a young man called Alain Lagrange. If one of them says they have, go over there and find out anything you can about him. Not from the directors, they never know much, but from the other employees.’

  He hung about for another half-hour in his office, finishing off trivial tasks. Then he had a visit from a priest who complained that someone was stealing from the poor box in his church. To receive the priest, he had put his jacket back on. And once alone again, he went out as well, and took one of the police cars waiting on the embankment.

  ‘Take me to the Arcades des Champs-Élysées!’

  The pavements were crowded with shoppers. At the entrance to the Arcades, there were more tourists speaking foreign languages than French people. He rarely came here and was surprised to find that in a stretch of less than a hundred metres there were no fewer than five lingerie shops. He was embarrassed about going in. He had the impression that the salesgirls were eyeing him quizzically.

  ‘Do you have a Mademoiselle Lagrange working here?’

  ‘Is this personal?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I mean . . .’

  ‘We have a Lajaunie, Berthe Lajaunie, but she’s on holiday.’

  In the third shop, a pretty girl raised her head at once and said, already on the defensive:

  ‘That’s me. What do you want?’

  She looked nothing like her father. Possibly she resembled her brother Alain, though with a very different expression, and without knowing why, Maigret felt sorry for any man who might fall in love with her. At first sight, admittedly, she had a pleasant enough manner, especially when wearing her salesgirl’s smile. But behind this surface amiability, he guessed that this was a hard woman, possessed of astonishing sang-froid.

  ‘Have you seen your brother lately?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  She glanced towards the back of the shop where her boss was in a fitting room with a customer. Dispensing with the niceties, he preferred to show her his badge.

  ‘Has he done anything wrong?’ she asked, lowering her voice.

  ‘You mean Alain?’ Maigret asked.

  ‘Who told you I worked here?’

  ‘Your father.’

  She did not take long to think.

  ‘If you really need to talk to me, wait for me somewhere for half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll wait on the terrace of the café Le Français.’

  She watched him leave, without moving but with a furrowed brow, and Maigret spent the next thirty-five minutes gazing at the passers-by and shifting his legs every time a waiter or a customer needed to get past. She arrived wearing a light-coloured two-piece outfit and a determined expression. He had been sure she would come. She was not the kind of girl to run away, nor, once she had arrived, to betray any awkwardness. She sat on the chair he had saved for her.