Maigret Gets Angry

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I thought as much. It’s funny, but I had a feeling. At one point I even stood still, for less than a second perhaps, as if I was waiting for the shot. Anyway, we were groping around in the dark again, and now he’d got off his bike and was pushing it. He passed it over another hedge. We found ourselves on a little path that ran down to the Seine and, there too, he couldn’t go fast. On the towpath, it was different, and I lost a lot of ground, but I caught up with him on the way up to the station, because of the hill.

  ‘He must have been quite confident, because he couldn’t have guessed that I had my bike a bit further on.

  ‘Poor kid! He was pedalling for all he was worth. He was certain he was going to throw me off, wasn’t he?

  ‘Well, he was wrong! I grab my bike in passing, I give it some oomph and, just when he’s least expecting it, here I am riding alongside him as if nothing’s happened.

  ‘“Don’t be afraid, kid,” I say to him.

  ‘I wanted to reassure him. He went crazy. He pedalled faster and faster, it made his breath all hot.

  ‘“Don’t be afraid, I’m telling you … You know Inspector Maigret, don’t you? He doesn’t want to hurt you, he wants to help you.”

  ‘From time to time, he turned towards me and yelled furiously:

  ‘“Leave me alone!”

  ‘Then, with a sob in his voice:

  ‘“I still won’t say anything.”

  ‘I felt sorry for him, I tell you. Some job you gave me. To say nothing of the fact that going down a hill, I can’t remember where, on a main road, he swerves and ends up face down on the tarmac, and I literally heard the crack as his head hit the road.

  ‘I get off my bike. I want to help him up. He was already back in the saddle, crazier, angrier than ever.

  ‘“Stop, kid. You must have hurt yourself. There’s no harm in us talking for a minute, is there? I’m on your side, I am.”

  ‘I’d been wondering for a while what he was up to, hunched over his handlebars, with one hand hidden from view. I should add that the moon had come up and it was fairly light.

  ‘I ride up closer. I wasn’t a metre away from him when he makes a movement. I duck. Luckily! That little rascal had just thrown a monkey wrench that he’d taken out of his saddle bag at my head. It missed my forehead by a whisker.

  ‘Now he was even more frightened. He reckoned I was angry with him, that I’d get him back. And I carried on talking. It would be a laugh if I could repeat everything I said to him that night.

  ‘“You realize that you won’t get rid of me, don’t you? Besides I’m under orders. Go where you like, you’ll always find me behind you … I report to the inspector. Once he’s there, this won’t be my business any more.”

  ‘He must have taken the wrong road at a crossroads, because now we were heading away from Paris. After going through umpteen villages, all ghostly in the moonlight, we came out on Route d’Orléans. That’s some distance from the Route de Fontainebleau!

  ‘Eventually he was forced to slow down, but he refused to speak to me or even to look in my direction.

  ‘Then it grew light and we were on the outskirts of Paris. I had another close shave, because he had the bright idea of diving into the little back streets to try and shake me off.

  ‘He must have been worn out … I could see how pale he was, his eyelids were red. He only managed to stay on his bike through habit.

  ‘“We’d do better to call it a night and get some kip, kid. You’ll end up making yourself ill.”

  ‘And then, he spoke to me. He must have done it automatically, without realizing. Yes, I’m convinced he was so exhausted that he no longer knew what he was doing. Have you ever seen the finishing line of a cross-country race when the guy has to have someone holding him up while he’s completely oblivious to all the excitement around him?

  ‘“I don’t have any money,” he says to me.

  ‘“That’s not a problem, I do. We’ll go wherever you like, but you need to rest.”

  ‘We were in this neighbourhood. I didn’t think he’d take me at my word so quickly. He saw the word “hotel” over the door, which was open. There were some workers coming out.

  ‘He got off the bike and he could barely stand up straight, he was so stiff. If the café had been open, I’d have bought him a drink, but I don’t know if he’d have accepted it.

  ‘He’s proud, you know. He’s a strange boy. I don’t know what his plan is, but he’s sticking to it, and it’s not over yet.

  ‘We shoved the two bikes under the stairs. If they haven’t been stolen, they should still be there.

  ‘He went up ahead of me. On the first floor, he didn’t know what to do, because there didn’t appear to be anyone around.

  ‘“Patron!” I shouted.

  ‘The owner turned out to be a woman. Stronger than a man, and difficult.

  ‘“What do you want?”

  ‘And she gave us a look that showed she was thinking dirty thoughts.

  ‘“We want two rooms. Next to each other if possible.”

  ‘In the end she gave us two keys, rooms 12 and 13. That’s all, boss. Now, if you don’t mind staying here for a moment, I’d like to go and have a drink or two and maybe something to eat. I’ve been smelling food cooking since this morning.’

  ‘Open the door for me,’ said Maigret when Mimile came back up, reeking of alcohol.

  ‘You want to wake him up?’ protested Mimile, who had begun to consider the young man as his protégé. ‘You’d do better to let him kip to his heart’s content.’

  Maigret gave a reassuring wave and went into the room without making a sound, tiptoeing over to the window and resting his elbows on the ledge. Men were loading the gas-works furnaces and the flames shot up bright yellow in the sunlight. He could imagine the sweat on the torsos of the workers stripped to the waist as they wiped their foreheads with their grimy arms.

  It was a long wait. Maigret had plenty of time to think. From time to time, he turned towards his young companion, who was beginning to leave the realm of deep and peaceful sleep to enter into the more restless phase that precedes awakening. Sometimes his brow furrowed. His mouth opened wider, as if he were trying to say something. He was probably dreaming that he was speaking. He became fierce. He was saying ‘no’ with all the strength of his being.

  Then his expression became more distraught and he appeared to be on the verge of tears. But he did not cry. He tossed and rolled over, making the sagging bed creak. He swatted a fly that had landed on his nose. His eyelids flickered, startled by the glare of the sunlight.

  Finally his eyes were wide open, staring at the slanting ceiling in naive surprise. Then he gazed at the bulky form of Maigret, who stood with his back to the light.

  Suddenly he was fully alert. He did not stir, but remained absolutely still, and a cold determination reminiscent of his father stole over his face and hardened his features.

  ‘I still won’t say anything,’ he announced.

  ‘I am not asking you to say anything,’ replied Maigret with a hint of gruffness in his voice. ‘And besides, what could you tell me?’

  ‘Why was I followed? And what are you doing in my room? Where’s my father?’

  ‘He stayed back at home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  It was as if he did not dare budge, as if the slightest movement might put him in some unknown peril. He lay there on his back, his nerves on edge, his eyes wide.

  ‘You have no right to follow me like this. I am free. I haven’t done anything.’


  ‘Would you rather I took you home to your father?’

  Alarm in his grey eyes.

  ‘That’s what the police would do immediately if they caught you. You’re a minor. You’re just a child.’

  Sitting up abruptly, the boy was overcome by despair.

  ‘But I don’t want to! … I don’t want to! …’ he howled.

  Maigret heard Mimile moving around on the landing, no doubt thinking he was a bully.

  ‘I want to be left alone. I want—’

  Maigret caught the young man’s panic-stricken glance in the direction of the window and understood. If he hadn’t been blocking his path, Georges-Henry might have tried to throw himself out.

  ‘Like your cousin?’ he said slowly.

  ‘Who told you that my cousin …?’

  ‘Listen, Georges-Henry.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have to listen to me. I know about the predicament you are in.’

  ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘Do you want me to spell it out?’

  ‘I forbid you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Shh! … You can’t go back to your father’s house and you don’t want to.’

  ‘I’ll never go back there.’

  ‘What’s more, you are in a frame of mind to do something stupid.’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘No. It’s other people’s business too.’

  ‘Nobody cares about me.’

  ‘The fact remains that you need someone to keep an eye on you for a few days.’

  The young man sniggered ruefully.

  ‘And that’s what I have decided to do,’ Maigret finished, calmly lighting his pipe. ‘With or without your agreement … It’s up to you which.’

  ‘Where do you want to take me?’

  It was already obvious that he was plotting his escape.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I admit that it’s a tricky question, but, in any case, you can’t stay in this dump.’

  ‘It’s no worse than a cellar.’

  ‘Come, come!’ This was a slight improvement since he was able to be ironic about his circumstances.

  ‘First of all, we’re going to have a nice lunch together. You’re hungry. Of course you are.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I still won’t eat.’

  Heavens, he could be childish!

  ‘Well I’m going to eat. I’m famished,’ stated Maigret. ‘And you will behave yourself. The friend you’ve already met and who followed you here is more agile than I am and he’ll keep an eye on you. All right, Georges-Henry? You could do with a bath, but I don’t see any chance of having one here. Wash your face.’

  He obeyed sulkily. Maigret opened the door.

  ‘Come in, Mimile. I suppose the taxi’s still downstairs? The three of us are going for lunch somewhere, in a nice, quiet restaurant. Or rather the two of us, because you’ve already eaten.’

  ‘I can eat again, don’t worry.’

  It sounded as though Georges-Henry had his feet back on the ground again since once they were downstairs he protested:

  ‘What about the bikes?’

  ‘We’ll come back for them or send someone to pick them up.’

  And, to the driver:

  ‘Brasserie Dauphine.’

  It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when they sat down to eat in the cool shade of the brasserie and an impressive selection of hors d’oeuvre dishes was placed in front of them.

  7. Madame Maigret’s Chick

  ‘Hello! … Is that you, Madame Maigret? What? Where am I?’

  That question reminded him of his days in the Police Judiciaire when he would go for four or five days without returning home, sometimes without being able to let his wife know where he was, and would finally telephone from the most unexpected places.

  ‘In Paris, quite simply. And I need you. I’ll give you half an hour to get dressed. I know … It’s impossible … It doesn’t matter … In half an hour, take Joseph’s car … or rather Joseph will come and pick you up. What? Supposing it’s not free? … Don’t worry, I’ve already telephoned him. He’ll drive you to Les Aubrais and the train will get in to Gare d’Orsay at six o’clock. Ten minutes later, a taxi will drop you off at Place des Vosges.’

  This was the Maigrets’ former Paris home, which they had kept. Without waiting for his wife to arrive, Maigret took Georges-Henry and Mimile to the apartment. The windows were protected with grey paper, there were dust covers and newspapers still on all the furniture, and flea powder on the rugs.

  ‘I need a hand, boys.’

  It could not be said that Georges-Henry had become more human during the meal. But although he hadn’t uttered a word and had continued to look daggers at Maigret, at least he had eaten heartily.

  ‘I still consider myself a prisoner,’ he stated, once inside the apartment, ‘and I warn you that I’ll escape the minute I can. You have no right to keep me here.’

  ‘That’s right! Meanwhile, I need a hand over here, please!’

  And Georges-Henry set to work with the others, folding the newspapers, removing the dust covers, and lastly pushing the electric vacuum cleaner around. They had finished and Maigret was pouring some Armagnac into three little glasses from the elegant set they hadn’t taken to the country for fear of breaking it, when Madame Maigret arrived.

  ‘Are you running a bath for me?’ she asked in surprise at hearing the water pouring into the bathtub.

  ‘No, darling. It’s for this young man, a charming boy who’s going to be staying here with you. His name is Georges-Henry. He has promised to run away at the first opportunity, but I’m relying on Mimile – let me introduce him, by the way – and on you to stop him from leaving. Do you think you’ve digested your lunch, Georges-Henry? Then go and have a bath.’

  ‘Are you leaving? … Will you be back for dinner? … You don’t know, as usual! And there’s nothing to eat here.’

  ‘You’ve got all the time in the world to go shopping while Mimile keeps an eye on the boy.’

  He whispered a few things to her and she looked at the bathroom door with a sudden tenderness.

  ‘All right! I’ll try. How old is he? Seventeen?’

  Half an hour later, Maigret found himself in the family atmosphere of the Police Judiciaire, asking for Torrence.

  ‘He’s back, chief. He should be in his office, unless he’s gone down for a beer. I left a message for you on your old desk.’

  It was about a telephone call that had come in at around three o’clock:

  Please tell Detective Chief Inspector Maigret that last Monday Bernadette Amorelle had her lawyer come to draw up her will. He is Maître Ballu, who probably lives in Paris.

  The switchboard operator couldn’t say exactly where the telephone call had originated. She had simply heard an operator saying:

  ‘Hello! Corbeil! I’m putting you through to Paris.’

  It probably came from Orsenne or nearby.

  ‘It was a woman’s voice. I may be wrong, but I had the impression that it was someone who was not in the habit of making telephone calls.’

  ‘Ask Corbeil where the telephone call originated.’

  He went into the office of Torrence, who was busy writing a report.

  ‘I made inquiries as you requested, chief. I contacted a dozen or so clubs, but I only found traces of Ernest Malik at two of them, the Haussmann and the Sporting. Malik still goes to them occasionally, but much less regularly than in the past. Apparently he’s a poker ace. H
e never goes near the baccarat table. Poker and écarté. He rarely loses! At the Sporting, I was lucky enough to come across an old gambling inspector I used to know thirty years ago.

  ‘When he was still a student, Malik was one of the best poker players in the Latin Quarter. The old inspector, who was a waiter at La Source at that time, claims that he earned his living at cards.

  ‘He set himself a figure which he never exceeded. As soon as he’d won that amount, he had the self-control to withdraw from the game, which made him unpopular with his partners.’

  ‘Have you ever come across a lawyer called Ballu?’

  ‘That name rings a bell. Hold on!’

  Torrence flicked through a directory.

  ‘Batin … Babert … Bailly … Ballu … 75, Quai Voltaire. It’s just across the road!’

  Strangely, this lawyer business troubled Maigret. He didn’t like it when a new lead suddenly emerged and disrupted his investigation, and he was tempted to ignore this one.

  The switchboard operator informed him that the call had come from the post office in Seine-Port, five kilometres from Orsenne. The postmistress, questioned over the telephone, answered that the caller had been a woman aged around twenty-five to thirty, and that was all she could say.

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at her, because it was the time when they come to collect the mail bags. What? She looked like a worker … Yes! A maid perhaps.’

  Wasn’t it just like Malik to get one of his servants to call?

  Maigret gave his name on arrival at Maître Ballu’s practice. His office was closed, but he agreed to see Maigret. He was extremely elderly, almost as old as Bernadette Amorelle herself. His lips were nicotine-stained, and he spoke in a reedy, cracked voice, then held a tortoiseshell ear trumpet towards his visitor.

  ‘Amorelle! Yes, I can hear you. She is indeed an old friend! We go back … Wait … It was before the 1900 World’s Fair that her husband came to see me about a land matter. A strange man! I remember asking him whether he was a relative of the Geneva Amorelles, an old Protestant family who …’