Maigret's First Case

by Georges Simenon

  ‘He’s asking for the count or Dédé …’

  The man in the check suit started moving towards him, his mouth full, his napkin in his hand. He came right up to Maigret, calmly, pausing to look him up and down.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  And while Maigret was trying to think of an answer:

  ‘I’m Dédé.’

  Maigret had rehearsed a number of scenarios in case he found himself face to face with the man, but he improvised a new one.

  ‘I arrived yesterday,’ he stated awkwardly.

  ‘Arrived from where?’

  ‘From Lyon. I live in Lyon.’

  ‘Now that’s interesting!’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend, someone I was at school with …’

  ‘If it’s a school friend, it’s not me you want.’

  ‘It’s Count d’Anseval … Bob …’

  ‘Well, well, well!’

  He was not smiling. He ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking.

  ‘And where have you been looking for Bob?’

  ‘Everywhere. He wasn’t at his hotel.’

  ‘Because when you two were at school, he gave you the address of his hotel, did he?’

  ‘A friend gave me the address.’

  Dédé signalled imperceptibly to the barman.

  ‘Well! Since you’re a friend of Bob’s, you must have a drink with us. It just so happens that this evening we’re having a little family party.’

  He beckoned Maigret to follow him into the private dining room. There was food and wine on the table, champagne in a silver bucket, flute glasses. The other guests were a woman in black, her elbows on the table, and a man with a broken nose and a bovine expression, who rose slowly, with the air of a boxer about to enter the ring.

  ‘This is Albert, a friend.’

  And he gave Albert a peculiar look, the same look he had given the owner. He did not raise his voice, still did not smile, and yet Maigret had the feeling that he was mocking him somehow.

  ‘Lucile, Bob’s girl.’

  Maigret noticed the scar on her very beautiful, very expressive face. As he leaned over to say good evening, the young woman’s eyes filled with tears which she wiped away with her handkerchief.

  ‘Take no notice. She’s just lost her father. So she’s crying into the champagne. Angelino! Another glass and a plate!’

  This frosty cordiality was creepy, ominous, sinister even. Maigret turned around and had the distinct feeling that there was no escape without the permission of the little man in the check suit.

  ‘So, you’ve come from Lyon to meet up with your old friend Bob?’

  ‘That’s not the only reason. I had business in Paris. A friend told me that Bob was here. I lost touch with him years ago.’

  ‘Years, eh! Well, to your health! A friend of Bob’s is a friend of ours. Drink up, Lucile!’

  She obeyed, her hand trembling so badly that the glass knocked against her teeth.

  ‘She received a telegram this afternoon telling her that her father had died. It’s always upsetting. Show us the telegram, Lucile.’

  She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Show the gentleman …’

  She rummaged in her bag.

  ‘I must have left it in my room.’

  ‘Do you like ravioli? The owner is making his special dish. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Jules.’

  ‘I like that. Jules. It sounds good. So, Jules my friend, what do you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘I’d like to have seen Bob before leaving.’

  ‘Because you’re going back to Bordeaux soon?’

  ‘Lyon.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, Lyon! Lovely city! I’m sure Bob will be very sorry to have missed you. Especially as he’s very fond of his old school friends. Put yourself in his shoes. School friends are decent people. I bet you’re a decent person. What do you reckon this gentleman does for a living, Lucile?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think! Me, I’ll bet he’s a pig farmer.’

  Was it an idle guess? Why that word ‘pig’, a derogatory word in some circles for the police? Was he sending the others a warning?

  ‘I work in insurance,’ muttered Maigret, playing the part to the hilt, for he had no other option.

  The next course was served. The waiter brought another bottle, which Dédé must have ordered with a gesture.

  ‘It’s strange how people bump into one another. You arrive in Paris out of the blue, you vaguely remember an old school friend and you run into someone who gives you his address. Anyone else might have searched for ten years, especially as there isn’t a soul in the neighbourhood who knows the name d’Anseval. Take me, for example. Angelino and the owner have known me for years. Ask them my name and they’ll tell you I’m Dédé. Just Dédé. Stop bawling, Lucile! The gentleman will think you don’t know how to behave at the table.’

  The other man, the one with the boxer’s nose, said nothing. He ate and drank with a mulish expression, now and then giving a sort of silent snigger, as if he found the garage owner’s jokes very entertaining.

  Lucile checked the time on a little gold watch that dangled from her belt on a chain, and Dédé reassured her:

  ‘You’ll catch your train, don’t worry.’

  He explained to Maigret:

  ‘I’m taking her to the local train later to make sure she gets there in time for the funeral. Funny thing, life. Today, her old man snuffs it, and I back the winner at Longchamp. I’m rolling in dough so I’m putting on a little party. But Bob’s not here to raise a glass.’

  ‘Has he gone away?’

  ‘Like you say, Jules, he’s gone away. But we’ll try and arrange for you to see him later anyway.’

  Lucile began sobbing again.

  ‘Drink up, sweetheart! Drown your sorrows. Who’d have thought that she was such a sensitive creature? For two hours I’ve been doing everything I can to cheer her up. Fathers have to die sooner or later, don’t they? How long is it since you last saw him, Lucile?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Same again, Angelino. What about the soufflé? Tell the boss not to ruin the soufflé. To your good health, Jules!’

  No matter how much Maigret drank, his glass was always full, and Dédé had an almost menacing way of filling it and clinking glasses.

  ‘What’s the name of your friend who gave you Bob’s address?’

  ‘Bertrand.’

  ‘He must be pretty well informed. Not only did he give you the low-down on old Bob, but he sent you to the garage.’

  So he already knew that someone had been prowling around Rue des Acacias asking questions about him. He must have dropped by in the late afternoon.

  ‘What garage?’ mumbled Maigret.

  ‘I thought you said something about a garage. Wasn’t it me you were asking for when you came in here?’

  ‘I knew that you and Bob were friends.’

  ‘You Lyon boys are clever! To your good health, Jules! Let’s drink Russian style! Drain your glass in one! Come on! Don’t you like that?’

  The boxer in his corner seemed jubilant, whereas Lucile, forgetting her grief for a moment, seemed to be increasingly anxious. Two or three times, Maigret thought he caught her flashing Dédé a questioning look.

  What were they going to do with him? Dédé clearly had something in mind. He was growing more and more jovial, in his own way, without smiling and with a strang
e glint in his eye. Sometimes he sought approval from the other two, like an actor who feels on top form.

  ‘Whatever happens, I must keep a cool head,’ Maigret said to himself as he was forced to drink one glass of champagne after another.

  He wasn’t armed. He was strong, but he couldn’t take on two men like Dédé and the boxer in particular. He was distinctly aware of an icy resolve in the pair of them.

  Did they know he was from the police? Probably. Perhaps Lucile had dropped into Rue Brey and heard about the insistent visitor who had been there earlier? Perhaps they had even been expecting him?

  And yet there was a good reason for this celebration. Dédé had declared that he was feeling flush, and it was clearly true; he had that excited air of those of his kind who suddenly find their wallets bulging.

  The races? Dédé must be a regular, but Maigret would have sworn that he hadn’t been anywhere near Longchamp that day.

  As for Lucile’s tears, it wasn’t because of her father’s death that she kept bursting into sobs. Why did she well up every time Bob’s name was mentioned?

  It was ten o’clock, and they were still at the table, the champagne still flowing. And Maigret continued to fight off the drunkenness.

  ‘Do you mind if I make a telephone call, Jules?’

  The telephone booth was to the left, in the main dining room, and, from where he sat, Maigret could see him. Dédé had to request two or three numbers before getting through to the person he was calling. His lips could be seen moving, but it was impossible to guess what he was saying. Lucile looked worried, while the boxer, who had lit a huge cigar, was smiling blissfully and giving Maigret the occasional wink.

  Inside the glass booth, Dédé appeared to be giving orders, emphasizing certain words. There was no trace of merriment on his face now.

  ‘Apologies, but I didn’t want you to miss seeing your friend Bob.’

  Lucile, at the end of her tether, burst into tears, burying her face in her handkerchief.

  ‘Was it Bob you were telephoning?’

  ‘Not exactly, but as good as. I’ve arranged for the two of you to meet up. That’s the main thing, isn’t it? You’re very keen to see him, aren’t you?’

  His words must have been very witty, for the boxer looked ecstatic and even let out a sort of chuckle of admiration.

  Did they imagine that Maigret didn’t understand what they meant? The count was dead, or almost. So when Dédé promised Maigret he would get the two of them together …

  ‘I also need to make a telephone call,’ he said, sounding as casual as possible.

  Despite Maxime Le Bret’s advice, he had just decided to inform his station: he didn’t dare talk to the police from a different neighbourhood. It would be Besson on duty, or Colombani, playing cards with Sergeant Duffieu. He simply needed to drag things out to give his colleagues the time to get there and position themselves near the car.

  They wouldn’t dare do anything to him inside the restaurant. There were still customers whose voices could be heard on the other side of the partition, and while a lot of them were from the underworld, there must be some who weren’t.

  ‘Who do you need to telephone?’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘So your wife’s here with you? Married, eh? Do you hear that, Lucile? Jules is spoken for. He’s not for you! No point playing footsie under the table. To your health, Jules! No need to get up. Angelino will make the call for you. Angelino! Which hotel is your missus staying at?’

  The waiter stood waiting for Maigret’s reply, and he too seemed to be relishing the situation.

  ‘It’s not urgent.’

  ‘Are you sure? Won’t she be worried? She might think that something’s happened to you and have the police out looking for you. A bottle, Angelino! Or rather no, let’s have cognac, now. It’s time. In balloon snifters. I’m sure our friend Jules loves cognac.’

  For a second, Maigret thought of jumping up and making a beeline for the door, but he realized that they’d block his path. More than likely the two men were armed. They probably had friends, if not accomplices, in the restaurant, and Angelino, the waiter, would have no hesitation in tripping him up.

  Then Maigret felt a calmness, a clear-headed calmness, extremely clear-headed, despite all the champagne and the cognac he had been forced to drink. From time to time he too checked his watch. It was not so long since he had been policing the railway stations and he knew the timetables of the main trains by heart.

  Dédé had not been speaking idly when he had talked of a train. They really were leaving, possibly all three of them. They must already have their tickets. And each half-hour that passed reduced the possibilities. The Le Havre train, which might have been taking them to some ocean liner, had left Saint-Lazare ten minutes ago. At Gare de l’Est, the Strasbourg train would be leaving in around twenty minutes.

  Dédé was not a man to go and lie low in some rural hidey-hole where he would eventually be tracked down. He had his car outside, parked by the kerb in Rue de Tilsit.

  They were leaving with no luggage. They probably planned to abandon the car too.

  ‘Don’t drink any more, Lucile. If I know you, you’ll end up throwing up all over the tablecloth, and that’s not nice. Angelino, the bill!’

  And, pretending to believe that Maigret had made as if to take his wallet from his pocket:

  ‘No way! I told you that this was a little family party …’

  He proudly opened a wallet stuffed with thousand-franc notes. He didn’t even look at the bill, and pressed one of the notes into Angelino’s hand saying:

  ‘Keep the change!’

  He must have been very sure of himself.

  ‘And now, folks, let’s go. We’ll drive Lucile to the station, then we’ll go and find Bob. Are you happy, Jules? Can you stand up? Our friend Albert will help you. Yes, he will! Take his arm, Albert, while I look after the young lady.’

  It was half past eleven. That end of Avenue de Wagram was poorly lit; the bright lights were further down, towards Place des Ternes. The owner watched them leave with a strange expression, and before they had taken ten steps, he hastily pulled the shutters down, even though there were still two or three customers inside.

  ‘Hold on to him, Albert. We don’t want him falling on his face, otherwise his friend Bob won’t recognize him. This way, ladies and gentlemen!’

  If there had been a police officer on the corner, Maigret would have called for help, because he knew only too well what lay in store. He had heard too much, seen too much. He realized that his fate had been sealed from the moment he’d set foot inside the Italian restaurant.

  There was no patrol officer in sight. He noticed two or three girls silhouetted in the dark on the other side of the road. At the end of the avenue, an empty tram stood at the terminus, its windows casting a syrupy, yellowish light.

  Maigret dared to hope that his companions would not shoot. They needed time to jump into the car and get out of the neighbourhood before the alarm was raised.

  Knife? Probably. It was the fashion. And Albert the boxer had pinned his right arm to his side under the pretence of helping him to keep upright.

  A pity that Maigret hadn’t been able to puncture one of the tyres earlier. Had he waited a few minutes until the police officer had his back turned, the situation would have been different.

  It was almost midnight. There were two more trains that night, one for Belgium, from Gare du Nord, and the Ventimiglia train from Gare de Lyon. But Ventimiglia was a long way away
.

  Madame Maigret must be waiting up for him, sewing; Justin Minard would be playing the double bass at the Brasserie Clichy, where the number of the piece was written on a card. Had he managed to shake off Germaine? Maigret would have sworn that she was there, in the brasserie, and that the musician would be wondering what to do with her.

  There wasn’t a soul, not a cab to be seen in Rue de Tilsit. Only the grey car parked by the kerb. After settling Lucile in the rear seat, Dédé slid behind the wheel and started up the engine.

  Perhaps they wanted to drive him to an even more deserted spot, by the Seine or the Saint-Martin canal, so they could throw his body into the water?

  Maigret had no wish to die, and yet he was somehow resigned. He would do his utmost to defend himself, but that was not much. His left hand in his pocket clutched a bunch of keys.

  If only the engine had refused to start! But after a few splutters, it was ticking over and the car was quivering on its wheels.

  The goatskin jacket was on the seat, but Dédé didn’t bother to put it on. Was he going to beat Maigret up, or would it be the boxer who was standing behind Maigret and still gripping his right arm?

  The moment had come, and it is just possible that Maigret inwardly prayed: ‘Please God let me …’

  As if by chance, they suddenly heard voices. Two fairly drunk men in evening dress were weaving down Avenue de Wagram, the knobs of their canes protruding from the pockets of their black cloaks. They were humming the chorus that was all the rage in the cabarets.

  ‘Come on, Jules!’ said Dédé with a haste that Maigret just managed to detect.

  Then, as Maigret lifted his right foot to clamber into the car, he received a violent blow to the head. He was quick-witted enough to duck, and that cushioned the shock. He thought he heard footsteps approaching, voices, an engine backfiring, before he lost consciousness.

  When he opened his eyes, first of all he saw legs, patent-leather shoes, then pallid faces in the dark. There seemed to be a lot of them, a whole crowd, and yet, a little later, he was surprised to see that there were only five people surrounding him.