Maigret's Anger

by Georges Simenon

  ‘What? Monsieur Jubelin? Well then, get Monsieur Jubelin on the telephone. I’m calling on Detective Chief Inspector Maigret’s behalf … Police Judiciaire, yes … Hello? … No, the detective chief inspector wishes to speak to Monsieur Jubelin in person.’

  The tax inspector must either have been a busy man or have had an acute sense of his high office, because it took almost five minutes to get him on the telephone.

  ‘Hello! I’ll pass you over to the detective chief inspector.’

  Maigret grabbed the receiver with a sigh.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Monsieur Jubelin. I just want to ask you something … What’s that? Yes, it does concern Émile Boulay indirectly … You’ve read the newspapers … I understand … No, I’m not interested in his tax returns. That might come up later, but in that case I promise you I’ll go through the proper channels … Of course, I quite understand your reservations …

  ‘I have a slightly different question. Did Boulay have any problems with you? That’s it … Did you ever have occasion to threaten him with legal proceedings, for example? No. That’s what I thought … Books always in perfect order … Right … Right …’

  He listened, nodding his head and scribbling on his blotter. Monsieur Jubelin had such a ringing voice that Lucas could hear almost everything he said.

  ‘In a word, he had a good advisor … A lawyer, I know … Jean-Charles Gaillard … He’s really who I want to talk about … I imagine he handled the affairs of a few of your taxpayers … What’s that? Far too many?’

  Maigret winked at Lucas and summoned up his reserves of patience because the tax inspector had suddenly turned voluble.

  ‘Yes … Yes … Very accomplished, clearly … What? Returns that were beyond reproach … You tried, did you? And got nowhere … I see. May I ask another question? Which social class were Gaillard’s clients from, for the most part? A bit of everything, I understand … Yes … Yes … Many were from the same neighbourhood … Hoteliers, restaurateurs, nightclub owners … Obviously, it’s difficult …’

  This went on for almost another ten minutes, but Maigret only listened distractedly as the tax inspector, after his initial reticence, launched into a minutely detailed account of his fight against tax evaders.

  ‘Whew!’ Maigret sighed as he hung up. ‘Did you hear all that?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘As I’d expected, Émile Boulay’s tax returns were beyond reproach. Our friend Jubelin nostalgically repeated that phrase Lord knows how many times. He’s been trying to catch him out for years. Last year, he combed through all his books again without finding the least irregularity.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Exactly! All Jean-Charles Gaillard’s clients are the same.’

  Maigret looked absent-mindedly at the list the inspector had drawn up. He remembered the clerk’s remark:

  ‘Particularly at picking his cases …’

  Well, the lawyer was just as good at picking his financial clients: hoteliers in Montmartre and other parts of town who rented rooms out by the hour as well as the night, landlords like Jo the Wrestler, nightclub and racehorse owners …

  As Jubelin was saying just now on the telephone:

  ‘It’s hard proving income and overheads with people like that …’

  Standing at his desk, Maigret looked through the list again. He had to choose someone, and the rest of the investigation might depend on who.

  ‘Call Dupeu for me.’

  The inspector came back into the office.

  ‘Do you know what’s happened to Gaston Mauran, who you told us about earlier?’

  ‘A month or two ago, I saw him manning the pumps of a garage on Avenue d’Italie. It was pure chance: I was driving my wife and the kids to the country and wondering where to fill up.’

  ‘Go and ring the owner of the garage and check that Mauran is still working for him. Make sure he doesn’t tell him anything. I don’t want him getting scared and giving us the slip.’

  If it didn’t work with him, Maigret would choose another person on the list, then another, and so on until he found what he was looking for.

  Admittedly that wasn’t very clear. In all the lawyer’s cases there was a certain characteristic, some sort of common feature, which he would have had trouble defining.

  ‘Lawyers don’t kill their clients …’

  ‘Do you still need me, boss?’

  ‘Stay here, yes.’

  It was as if he were talking to himself and he didn’t mind somebody listening in.

  ‘When it came down to it, they all had good reason to be grateful to him. Either they went to court and were acquitted, or the inspector of taxes had no choice but to accept their returns … I don’t know if you see what I’m getting at. Usually a lawyer is bound to have some dissatisfied clients. If he loses a case, if someone is given a harsh sentence …’

  ‘I see, chief.’

  ‘Now, it’s not easy picking cases …’

  Dupeu came back.

  ‘He’s still working in the same garage. He’s there now.’

  ‘Get a car downstairs from the yard and bring him back here as quick as you can. Don’t scare him. Tell him it’s a simple check. I don’t want him to be too relaxed though.’

  It was 4.30, and the heat wasn’t letting up, far from it. There was no air in the room. Maigret’s shirt was starting to stick to his back.

  ‘What if we go and have a glass of beer?’

  A brief interval at the Brasserie Dauphine while they waited for Gaston Mauran.

  As the two men were about to leave the office, the telephone rang. Maigret hesitated before turning back, but ended up answering just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Is that you, chief? Torrence here.’

  ‘I recognize your voice. Well?’

  ‘I’m calling from Avenue de la Grande-Armée.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago, Gaillard came out of his house and got in his car. Luckily a traffic jam on the corner of Rue Blanche allowed me to get in mine and catch him up.’

  ‘Did he notice he was being followed?’

  ‘No chance. You’ll see why I’m so certain in a moment … He headed straight for L’Étoile, taking the most direct route. He couldn’t drive fast because of the traffic, and when he got to Avenue de la Grande-Armée he drove even more slowly. We passed garage after garage. It seemed as if he couldn’t make up his mind. In the end, he drove into a place called the Garage Moderne, near Porte Maillot.

  ‘I waited outside. I didn’t go in until I saw him come out on foot and head off towards the Bois.’

  This was precisely the small, unexpected fact that was going to deprive Maigret of his freedom of action, or rather, force him to act at a particular moment, in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

  His expression became increasingly serious as he listened to Torrence, and he seemed to have forgotten the glass of beer he had promised himself.

  ‘It’s a big place with an automatic carwash. I had to show my badge to the foreman. Jean-Charles Gaillard isn’t a regular customer; they don’t remember seeing him there before. He asked if they could wash his car in under an hour. He’s meant to be coming back around five thirty.’

  ‘Have they started working on it?’

  ‘They were about to, but I asked them to wait.’

  A decision had to be made immediately.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Stay there and don’t let anyone touch the car. I’ll send someone over to bring it back here. Don’t worry: he’ll have all the paperwork.’

  ‘What about when Gaillard comes back?’

  ‘You’ll have an inspector with you. I don’t know who yet. I’d rather there were two of you. Be very polite but make sure whatever you do that he comes back here with you.’

  He thought of the young car thief he was expecting.

  ‘Don’t show him straight into my office. Make him wait. He’ll probably be
outraged. Don’t let yourself be overawed. And, most of all, don’t let him make a telephone call.’

  Torrence sighed half-heartedly:

  ‘Fine, chief. But get a move on. I’d be surprised if he’s going for a long walk round the Bois in this heat.’

  Maigret couldn’t decide whether to go straight to the examining magistrate to cover his back. But he was almost certain that the magistrate would prevent him acting on his instincts.

  In the office next door, he stared at each of the inspectors in turn.

  ‘Vacher.’

  ‘Yes, chief?’

  ‘Have you ever driven an American car?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Get yourself over to the Garage Moderne on Avenue de la Grande-Armée as quick as you can. It’s at the far end, near Porte Maillot. You’ll find Torrence there, who will point a blue car out to you. Bring it back here and leave it in the courtyard. Try to touch as little as possible.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘You go along too, Janin, but you’ll be staying at the garage with Torrence. I’ve told him what to do.’

  He looked at his watch. Dupeu had only set off for the Avenue d’Italie a quarter of an hour earlier. He turned to Lucas.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  If they were quick, they could still have their glass of beer.

  8.

  Before he had the garage mechanic sent in, Maigret asked Dupeu:

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘He seemed surprised at first and asked me if I worked with you. He was more intrigued than worried, I thought. He asked me twice:

  ‘ “Are you sure Detective Chief Inspector Maigret wants to see me?”

  ‘Then he went and washed his hands with white spirit and took off his overalls. Driving here, he only asked one question:

  ‘ “Can a case be reopened after it’s gone to court?” ’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I didn’t know, but that I supposed it couldn’t be. He seemed confused the rest of the way here.’

  ‘Send him in and then leave us alone.’

  As he was shown into the office, Mauran would have been amazed to learn that the famous detective chief inspector was more nervous than he was. Maigret watched him walk into the room, a lanky young man with tousled red hair, porcelain-blue eyes and freckles around his nose.

  ‘The other times,’ Mauran began, as if he wanted to come out swinging, ‘you left it to your inspectors to question me.’

  There was something wily but also naive about him.

  ‘I might as well come straight out and tell you that I haven’t done anything …’

  He wasn’t scared. Of course, it made a big impression, finding himself alone with the big chief, but he wasn’t scared.

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? The judge said I was innocent, didn’t he? Well, as good as. And I played along, you know that better than anyone.’

  ‘You mean you gave up your accomplices?’

  ‘They’d taken advantage of my gullibility, the lawyer proved that. He explained that I’d had a difficult childhood, that I had to support my mother, that she suffered from ill health.’

  Maigret sensed something curious as he was talking. The mechanic expressed himself in a slightly affected way, exaggerating his Parisian salt-of-the-earth accent, but at the same time there was an amused sparkle in his eyes, as if he was pleased with the role he was playing.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve brought me in because of that business, have you? I’ve kept my nose clean since then, I dare anyone to say different … Well?’

  He sat down without being invited, a rare occurrence in Maigret’s office, and even took a packet of Gauloises out of his pocket.

  ‘All right?’

  Still observing him, Maigret nodded.

  ‘What if we reopened the investigation for some reason?’

  Mauran gave a start, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Suppose there are some things I need to clear up?’

  The telephone rang on Maigret’s desk, and Torrence’s voice said:

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Did he kick up a fuss?’

  ‘Not really. He says he’s in a hurry and wants to see you right away.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be with him as soon as I am free.’

  Gaston Mauran listened, frowning, as if wondering what sort of act was being put on for his benefit.

  ‘This is a joke, right?’ he said after Maigret had hung up.

  ‘What’s a joke?’

  ‘Bringing me in here. Trying to frighten me. You know perfectly well that it’s all been sorted out.’

  ‘What’s been sorted out?’

  ‘Well, you know, that I’m in the clear. No one’s going to give me a hard time from now on.’

  At that moment he gave a rather clumsy wink, which bothered Maigret more than everything else.

  ‘Listen, Mauran, Inspector Dupeu handled your case …’

  ‘The guy who brought me in just now, yes, that’s right. I don’t remember his name. He was on the level.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know, that he was on the level.’

  ‘But what else?’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Do you mean that he didn’t set you any traps and went easy on you with his questioning?’

  ‘I suppose he questioned me the way he was meant to question me.’

  Implicit in the young man’s words, his attitude, there was something ambiguous that Maigret was trying to pin down.

  ‘It had to be like that, didn’t it?’ asked Mauran.

  ‘Because you were innocent?’

  The mechanic seemed to be growing uneasy himself now, as if he no longer understood what was happening, as if Maigret’s responses threw him as much as what he was saying threw the policeman.

  ‘Come on …’ Mauran said hesitantly after taking a drag on his cigarette.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing …’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘I can’t remember … Why did you call me in?’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘I think something’s wrong here.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Are you sure? In that case I’d better keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that. What were you going to say?’

  Maigret wasn’t so much threatening as steely. Standing against the light, he was a solid mass that Gaston Mauran was starting to look at with a sort of panic in his eyes.

  ‘I want to go …’ he stammered, getting up suddenly.

  ‘Not until you’ve talked.’

  ‘This is a trap then, is it? Who’s messed up? Is there someone around here who isn’t in on the game?’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘You tell me what you know first.’

  ‘I ask the questions here. What game?’

  ‘You’ll go on asking me that all night if you have to, won’t you … I was told that but I didn’t believe it.’

  ‘What else were you told?’

  ‘That you’d be nice to me.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  The boy turned his head away, determined not to talk, but sensing that he would capitulate in the end.

  ‘It’s not fair …’ he muttered finally between his teeth.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  Mauran suddenly lost his temper. Hackles up, staring Maigret in the face, he shouted:

  ‘You don’t know, is that it? What about the hundred thousand then?’

  He was so intimidated by the look on Maigret’s face that his voice trailed away. He saw the imposing mass coming towards him, two powerful hands reaching out, grabbing him by the shoulders, starting to shake him.

  Maigret had never been so pale in all his life. His expressionless face was like a block of stone.

  In an
unnervingly blank voice, he ordered:

  ‘Say that again!’

  ‘The … the … You’re hurting me …’

  ‘Say that again!’

  ‘The hundred thousand …’

  ‘What hundred thousand?’

  ‘Let me go. I’ll tell you everything.’

  Maigret released the mechanic but remained deathly pale. He brought his hand to his chest for a moment and felt his heart beating violently.

  ‘I guess I’ve been a mug,’ Mauran said.

  ‘Gaillard?’

  Mauran nodded.

  ‘Did he promise we’d be nice to you?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t say nice. He said you’d be understanding.’

  ‘And that you’d be acquitted?’

  ‘If the worst came to the worst, that I’d get a suspended sentence.’

  ‘Did he charge you a hundred thousand francs to defend you?’

  ‘Not to defend me. It was for something else.’

  ‘To give to someone?’

  The young mechanic was so intimidated tears welled in his eyes.

  ‘You …’

  Maigret stood motionless with his fists clenched for a good two minutes, until finally a little colour slowly returned to his face.

  Then he abruptly turned his back on his visitor and, although the blind was lowered, planted himself in front of the window for a while longer.

  When he turned round, his expression was almost back to normal, but you could have sworn that he had grown old, that he was suddenly very tired.

  He went and sat at his desk, pointed to a chair and unthinkingly started filling a pipe.

  ‘Smoke …’

  It came out as an order, as if he was exorcizing heaven knew what demons.

  In a deadened, muffled voice, he quietly went on:

  ‘I assume you’ve told me the truth.’

  ‘I swear on my mother’s life …’

  ‘Who sent you to Jean-Charles Gaillard?’

  ‘An old man who lives on Boulevard de la Chapelle.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re not going to reopen your case. The guy you’re talking about is called Potier and runs a junk shop …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d go out robbing and give him what you’d stolen.’

  ‘It didn’t happen often.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘To go and see that lawyer.’