Maigret's First Case

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I know nothing about what happened up there.’

  Neither did Maigret, but it was already becoming easier to reconstruct. What they needed to know was whether Richard Gendreau was supposed to be in the house. Perhaps, that night, he should have been at his club, or elsewhere?

  And again, perhaps − and it was in his nature − it was Bob himself who had asked him to go upstairs? Why not?

  In order to tell the pair of them what he thought of their scheming.

  ‘First of all, I’m not getting married.’

  Maigret, who had never seen him, was beginning to have a sense of his character and even of his appearance.

  ‘I have no desire to sell a name that I don’t even bother to use.’

  Because although around Place des Ternes and on the race-courses some called him the count, most of his acquaintances were convinced it was a nickname and were unaware of his real name.

  Did Lise Gendreau throw a tantrum and talk about her reputation? Did her brother lose his temper?

  ‘And you can shut up! Besides, I’m going to tell your little sister about the little deal you cooked up.’

  Did he have the chance? Or did Richard go for him straight away?

  Hundreds of thousands of people who drank Balthazar coffee and stuck flower cards in albums, like Madame Maigret, had no idea that their morning coffee had been at stake in the bedroom battle in Rue Chaptal.

  A vicious battle, which a servant listening at the keyhole had probably overheard.

  The two men must have grabbed hold of each other. Perhaps they had rolled on the floor.

  Was Richard Gendreau armed? He was definitely the sort to stab someone in the back.

  ‘I reckon it was the bitch that killed him. Not intentionally. She genuinely panicked. The proof is that the first thing she did, which she must later have regretted, was to open the window and call for help. Unless the window was open? I must say I hadn’t looked.

  ‘You see, I wonder whether she hadn’t ended up being truly in love with Bob. These things happen. She began because it suited her purpose. Then she fell for him. Not physically, I’ve already told you that she’s made of wood. But he was so different from the fossils she was used to meeting …

  ‘I reckon that when she saw that Bob had the upper hand, or that her brother was trying to do the dirty on her, she lost her head. She fired. Unfortunately, she’s a lousy shot and it was Bob she hit in the belly. Shall we ask for another bottle? This little wine’s not bad for two sous. So there you have it, Jules my friend!

  ‘When I saw the guy hammering on the door to be let in, I skedaddled, then I came back, but there was nothing more to be seen. I decided to make myself scarce.

  ‘We thought about it, Lucile and me. We still hoped that Bob would come back, or that we’d hear he was in hospital.

  ‘In the end I went to see Gendreau in his office. That’s how I know what the old man looked like.

  ‘Would it have been better if no one had profited from this?

  ‘He coughed up almost immediately, and I wished I’d asked for a hundred grand instead of fifty.

  ‘Bunch of crooks!

  ‘You turned up just as we were about to scram. It would have been too dumb to get caught, you’ve got to admit.

  ‘Cheers, my friend!

  ‘They settled things in their own way. I’m beginning to get used to it. It makes me sick every time I see one of their delivery vehicles with their neatly harnessed horses and a well-groomed coachman in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Patron! Coffee, but not Balthazar.’

  But there was no other choice.

  ‘That’s annoying!’ he grumbled under his breath. ‘I’m glad we’re going to live in the country.’

  ‘You and Lucile?’

  ‘She didn’t say no. We’ve got fifty thousand, or near enough. I’ve always dreamed of running a little restaurant by the river, something like this, with customers who are pals. It’s hard to find a place, because it would need to be not too far from a race-course. Tomorrow, I’m going to hunt around Maisons-Laffitte. That’s where I’ve taken Lucile.’

  He looked a little sheepish and added hastily:

  ‘Don’t you go thinking that we’ve become law-abiding!’

  It lasted for a week. Each morning, the bell summoned Maigret into the chief inspector’s office, where he presented his daily reports. Each morning, Le Bret opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, and then looked away.

  They did not exchange a word other than for strictly office matters. Maigret was more earnest than before, as if heavier, even though he had not yet put on weight. He didn’t bother to smile, and he was perfectly conscious that for Le Bret he was like a living rebuke.

  ‘Tell me, my boy …’

  That was in early May.

  ‘When are you due to take your exam?’

  The famous course he had been studying for the night the flautist had burst into his office, into his life.

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Do you expect to pass?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He remained cool, almost terse.

  ‘Guichard tells me that your ambition was to work at Quai des Orfèvres.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is it no longer so?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you would be more at home there and, even though you are invaluable to me here, I think I’m going to intercede to have you transferred.’

  Maigret, a lump in his throat, didn’t breathe a word. He was sulking. Deep down, he still resented them, all of them, his boss, the Gendreaus, the men from the Sûreté, perhaps even Guichard, who was a father figure for him.

  But if Guichard …

  It was inevitably they who were right, he vaguely realized. A scandal would have been pointless. In any case, Lise Gendreau would have been acquitted.

  ‘Well?’

  Was it not life itself that he was angry at, and was it not he who was in the wrong not to understand it?

  He had no intention of being bought. He refused to be indebted in any way to Chief Inspector Le Bret.

  ‘I’ll wait my turn,’ he managed to mutter.

  The very next day, he was summoned to Quai des Orfèvres.

  ‘Still angry, my boy?’ asked the big chief, clapping him on the shoulder.

  He couldn’t help blurting out, almost furiously, like a child:

  ‘It was Lise Gendreau who killed Bob.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I suspected as much. If it had been her brother, Louis wouldn’t have sacrificed himself.’

  The windows were open on to the Seine. Tugs trailing their strings of barges sounded their sirens before passing under the bridge and lowering their funnels. A constant stream of trams, omnibuses, carriages and taxis crossed Pont Saint-Michel, and the streets were alive with women in pastel frocks.

  ‘Have a seat, my friend.’

  The lesson he learned that day, given in a paternal voice, wasn’t in his technical police manuals.

  ‘Try to do as little damage as possible. Do you understand? What would it have achieved?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘What truth?’

  And the big chief concluded:

  ‘You can re-light your pipe. On Monday you will start here as an inspector under Detective Chief Inspector Barodet.’

  Maigret did not yet know that one day, twenty-two years later, he would come across Lise
again, under a different name, an aristocratic Italian name, that of her husband.

  Or that she would receive him in the unchanged office of Balthazar Coffee which he had only heard about from a certain Dédé − where he would finally see the portrait of the old man, still gracing the wall.

  ‘Inspector …’

  That was him.

  ‘I don’t need to ask you to exercise discretion …’

  By that time, the Sûreté had changed its name to the Police Judiciaire.

  And it handled ‘Investigations undertaken on behalf of private families’, as they were called in official jargon.

  ‘Unfortunately my daughter has her father’s character.’

  She on the other hand was cool and calm, like old Balthazar, whose full-length portrait hung behind her chair.

  ‘She allowed herself to become involved with an unscrupulous individual who has taken her to England, where he obtained a marriage licence. They must not, at all costs …’

  No, he did not yet know that, once again, the honour of the Balthazars would be in his hands.

  He was twenty-six years old. He couldn’t wait to go and tell his wife the news:

  ‘I’m being transferred to the chief’s squad.’

  But he couldn’t do so straight away. Justin Minard was waiting for him in the street.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Good news. I’ve been promoted.’

  The flautist looked more excited than he did.

  ‘Are you leaving the police station?’

  ‘As of tomorrow.’

  ‘Shall we celebrate?’

  At the Brasserie Dauphine, a stone’s throw from Quai des Orfèvres, inspectors from headquarters were having a drink, taking no notice of the two men celebrating over a bottle of sparkling wine.

  In a few days’ time, they would know at least one of them. Maigret would be their equal. He would be at home in this café, the waiter would greet him by his name and know what his favourite drink was.

  When he got home that evening he was drunk. Ten times he and Justin Minard had walked to and fro, from one corner of the street to the other.

  ‘Your wife …’ protested Maigret.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at your dance hall?’

  ‘What dance hall?’

  Maigret stumbled noisily up the stairs to his apartment. Flinging open the door, he announced solemnly:

  ‘Say hello to the newest inspector in the chief’s squad.’

  ‘Where’s your hat?’ Running his hand over his head, he realized he must have left his hat somewhere.

  ‘That’s women for you! And take note, be sure to take note, because it’s very important … Very important, do you hear? … It’s not because of the chief inspector … They had their eye on me, but I wasn’t aware … Do you know what he said to me? … The big chief … He said … I can’t repeat everything he said, but he’s a father … He’s a father to me, you know …’

  Then she brought him his slippers and made a cup of strong coffee.

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