Maigret and the Apparition Read online

  Maigret and the Apparition

  MAIGRET ET LE FANTÔME

  THE 90TH EPISODE OF THE MAIGRET SAGA

  Georges Simenon

  * * *

  An STM digital back-up edition 1.0

  click for scan notes and proofing history

  valid XHTML 1.0 strict

  * * *

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Inspector Lognon’s Nocturnal Activities and His Wife’s Infirmities

  Chapter 2: Lunch at Chez Manière

  Chapter 3: The Loves of Marinette

  Chapter 4: A Visit to the Dutchman

  Chapter 5: The Graffiti

  Chapter 6: The Barefoot Drunkard

  Chapter 7: Mirella’s Choice

  * * *

  Copyright © 1964 by Georges Simenon

  English translation copyright © 1976 by Georges Simenon tr. by Eileen Ellenbogen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to:

  Permissions Department, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers,

  Orlando, Florida32887.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Simenon, Georges, 1903-1989

  Maigret and the apparition.

  (A Harvest/HBJbook)

  Translation of Maigret et le fantôme.

  “A Helen and Kurt Wolff book.”

  I. Title.

  [PZ3.S5892Maega 1980] [PQ2637.153] 843'.912 80-14124

  ISBN 0-15-655127-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Harvest/HBJ edition 1980

  * * *

  Chapter 1: Inspector Lognon’s Nocturnal Activities and His Wife’s Infirmities

  ^ »

  On the night in question, it was past one o’clock when the light went out in Maigret’s office. The Chief Superintendent, his eyelids swollen with fatigue, opened the door communicating with the inspectors’ room. Bonfils and young Lapointe were the officers on duty that night

  “Good night, boys,” he mumbled.

  Outside, the cleaning women were sweeping the vast lobby. He raised his hand in greeting. As always at this late hour, there was a draft, and the stairway was damp and freezing cold as he and Janvier went down together.

  It was the middle of November. Rain had been falling all through the day. Maigret had not once set foot outside his overheated office since eight o’clock the previous morning, and before stepping out into the forecourt he turned up his coat collar.

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  A taxi, ordered by telephone, was waiting outside the main gate on the Quai des Orfèvres.

  “Just as far as the nearest métro station, Chief.”

  The rain was coming down in sheets, and bouncing off the paving stones. The inspector got out at the Châtelet.

  “Good night, Chief.”

  “Good night, Janvier.”

  They had parted like this hundreds of times before, with the same sense of somewhat jaded satisfaction.

  A few minutes later Maigret, without making a sound, was creeping up the stairs to his apartment on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, groping in his pocket for the key, then turning it carefully in the lock. Almost immediately he heard Madame Maigret turning over in bed.

  “Is that you?”

  How often had he come home in the middle of the night to hear her call out these same words, her voice drugged with sleep, as she groped in the dark for the switch of the bedside lamp? Hundreds if not thousands of times. Then, in her nightdress, she would get out of bed and take a look at her husband, to see what sort of a mood he was in.

  “Is it over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the boy talk in the end?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you hungry? Would you like me to get you something?”

  He hung his wet coat on the coat stand, and loosened his tie.

  “Is there any beer in the refrigerator?”

  On the way home, he had almost stopped the taxi in Place de la République, with the intention of going into one of the all-night brasseries and ordering some.

  “Did it turn out as you expected?”

  A dull case, if one can talk of dullness where the fate of three men is in the balance. One newspaper had managed to introduce a hint of sensationalism with the headline THE MOTORCYCLE GANG.

  On the first occasion, in broad daylight on Rue de Rennes, two motorcycles had drawn in to the curb in front of a jeweler’s. The first motorcycle had been carrying two men; the second, one. The three men had tied red scarves over their faces and gone into the shop. They had emerged a few minutes later, carrying guns and a quantity of jewelry and watches snatched from the display window and counter.

  At first the crowd had been too stunned to react, but when the first shock had subsided, a number of passers-by in cars had driven off in pursuit of the thieves, causing such a snarl in the process as to help, rather than hinder, the escape of the wanted men.

  “They’ll try again,” Maigret had predicted.

  It had been a pretty meager haul, for the shop, owned by a widow, stocked only very cheap stuff.

  “This was by way of being a dress rehearsal.”

  It was the first time that motorcycles had been used in a holdup.

  The Chief Superintendent had guessed right, for, three days later, the scene was re-enacted, only this time at a luxury jeweler’s on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The outcome was the same, except that on this occasion the thieves got away with jewelry worth millions of old francs, two hundred million, according to the newspapers, a hundred million, according to the insurance-company assessors.

  However, one of the thieves had dropped his scarf while escaping, and was arrested the following day at his place of work, a locksmith’s on Rue Saint-Paul.

  By the evening of that same day, all three were under lock and key. The eldest of them was twenty-two years of age, and the youngest, Jean Bauche, nicknamed Jean-not, barely eighteen.

  He was a tall, fair-haired youth, who wore his hair too long. He was also employed in the locksmith’s workshop. His mother worked as a cleaning woman on Rue Saint-Antoine.

  “Janvier and I have been taking turns all day,” Maigret, looking glum, said to his wife.

  Drinking beer and eating sandwiches the while.

  “ ‘See here, Jeannot, you think you’re tough, don’t you? They talked you into believing you were. But it wasn’t you or your two little friends who thought up either of those jobs. There’s someone behind all this, someone who engineers things, while taking great care not to soil his own hands. He’s only been out of Fresnes Prison two months, and he’s none too keen to find himself back inside. You might as well admit it; he was in the vicinity in a stolen car, and he covered your retreat by a dazzling display of clumsy driving.’ ”

  Maigret undressed, pausing from time to time to take a sip of beer. Disjointedly, he brought his wife up to date on the case.

  “Those kids are as stubborn as they come… They have their own peculiar code of honor…”

  He had ordered the arrest of three old ex-convicts, among them a man named Gaston Nouveau. As was only to be expected, he had a cast-iron alibi, having produced two witnesses ready to swear that at the time of the holdup he was in a bar on Avenue des Ternes.

  There had been hours of fruitless interrogation. The eldest of the three motorcyclists, Victor Sidon, familiarly known as Granny because he was inclined to plumpness, kept da
rting sly glances at the Chief Superintendent Saugier, nicknamed “Squib,” wept and denied all knowledge of the affair.

  “Janvier and I decided that our best course was to concentrate on young Bauche. We sent for his mother, who pleaded with him: ‘Talk, Jeannot! Can’t you see that these gentlemen are not out to get you? They know perfectly well that you were led astray…’ ”

  Twenty hateful hours spent in leaning on a young boy, pushing him remorselessly to the limits of human endurance. It was not pleasant, either, to see him suddenly crack without warning.

  “ ‘All right! I’ll tell you everything. You were right; it was Nouveau who brought us together at the Lotus, and set up the job.’ ”

  The Lotus was a small bar on Rue Saint-Antoine, much frequented by teen-agers, attracted by the music of the jukeboxes.

  “ ‘And because of you, he’ll have me beaten by his pals the minute I get out of prison…’”

  At last! The end of the day. Maigret, his head aching, got into bed.

  “What time do you have to be at the office?”

  “Nine.”

  “Couldn’t you sleep late, just for once?”

  “Wake me at eight.”

  As far as he was concerned, there had been no interval. He felt as if he had not slept at all. It seemed to him that he had no sooner shut his eyes than the doorbell rang, and his wife was creeping out of bed to answer it.

  He could hear whispering in the entrance hall. The voice seemed familiar, but he thought he must be dreaming, and buried his face in his pillow.

  He could hear his wife’s footsteps approaching the bed. Would she get back into bed? Had someone rung their doorbell by mistake? No. She touched him on the shoulder, and drew the curtains. Without having to open his eyes, he realized that it was daylight. Drowsily, he asked:

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  “Is there someone there?”

  “It’s Lapointe. He’s waiting for you in the dining room.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t get out of bed yet. I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

  Why did his wife sound as if she had just had some bad news? Why hadn’t she given him a straight answer to a straight question. The sky was a dirty gray, and it was still raining.

  Maigret’s first guess was that Jean Bauche, realizing with terror all that he had admitted, had hanged himself in his cell at the Préfecture. Without waiting for his coffee, Maigret slipped on his trousers, ran a comb through his hair, and, still feeling fuddled, after having been waked from a deep sleep, went into the dining room.

  Lapointe was standing at the window, wearing a black overcoat and carrying a black hat. After a night on duty, his chin was bristly.

  Maigret looked at him inquiringly.

  “I’m so sorry, Chief, to disturb your sleep only to bring you bad news. Something happened last night… It concerns someone you’re fond of…”

  “Janvier?”

  “No… It’s not one of our own men…”

  Madame Maigret came in, bearing two large cups of coffee.

  “It’s Lognon…”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, but he’s very seriously hurt. He’s been taken to Bichat for an emergency operation. One of their top surgeons, Mingault, has been at work on him for the past three hours. Knowing what a heavy day you had yesterday, I felt you needed your rest. That’s why I didn’t come earlier or phone… Besides, at first they didn’t think he had much chance of pulling through…”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was shot twice, in the stomach and just below the shoulder blade….”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “On the sidewalk, on Avenue Junot.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes. For the time being, his colleagues in the Eighteenth Arrondissement are handling the case…”

  Maigret was drinking his coffee in small sips. He was not enjoying it as much as he usually did.

  “I thought you’d probably want to be there when he regained consciousness. I’ve got a car waiting downstairs…”

  “Is anything more known about the incident?”

  “Almost nothing. They don’t even know what he was doing on Avenue Junot. A concierge nearby heard the shots, and called the police emergency number. A stray shot penetrated her shutters, shattering a windowpane and lodging in the wall above her bed…”

  “I’d better get dressed.”

  He went into the bathroom. Madame Maigret was laying out the breakfast, and Lapointe, having taken off his coat, seated himself at the table.

  Although Inspector Lognon, much as he had longed to be, was not a member of the Crime Squad, nevertheless Maigret and he had often worked together, almost every time, in fact, that a sensational case had come up in the Eighteenth Arrondissement. He was what is popularly known as a “plain-clothes detective,” one of twenty plain-clothes inspectors with headquarters in the Town Hall of Montmartre, on the corner of Rue Caulaincourt and Rue du Mont-Cenis.

  He was known to some as “Inspector Grumpy,” because of his surly manner, but Maigret had nicknamed him “Inspector Hapless,” for it seemed to him that poor Lognon had a positive gift for bringing upon himself every kind of misfortune.

  He was small and thin, and never without a head cold from one year’s end to the next, so that, in spite of being probably the most abstemious man on the force, he looked, with his red nose and watering eyes, the very picture of a drunkard.

  He was afflicted with an ailing wife, who spent her time trailing between her bed and an armchair near the window, so that Lognon, when he went off duty, was burdened with the housework, the shopping, and the cooking. He could just about afford to pay a cleaning woman to do the rooms once a week.

  He had taken the competitive examination for admission to the Department of Criminal Investigation on four separate occasions, and he had failed each time, through some trivial slip or omission. And yet he was outstandingly good at his job, a sort of bloodhound who, once he was on the scent, would never give up. He was stubborn and punctilious to a fault. He was one of those men who had only to pass a dubious character in the street to sense that something was amiss.

  “Is there any hope of saving his life?”

  “Apparently the doctors at Bichat think he has a thirty-percent chance.”

  As applied to a man who had earned the nickname Hapless, this was not very encouraging.

  “Was he able to speak?”

  Maigret, his wife, and Lapointe were eating the croissants that had just been delivered to the door by the baker’s boy.

  “No one in his section mentioned it, and I didn’t want to press them for information.”

  Lognon was not the only one with an inferiority complex. Most of the district inspectors keep a wary eye on the Big House, as they call the Quai des Orfèvres, and when they are on to anything important that is likely to hit the headlines, they hate having it taken away from them.

  “Let’s go,” sighed Maigret, putting on his coat, which was still damp from the previous night.

  He caught a look in his wife’s eye and knew that there was something she wanted to say to him. He guessed that she had just been struck with the same idea he had.

  “Do you think you’ll be in for lunch?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “In that case, don’t you think…?”

  She was thinking of Madame Lognon, alone and helpless in her apartment.

  “Hurry up and get dressed! We’ll drop you at Place Constantin-Pecqueur.

  The Lognons had lived there for the past twenty years, in a red-brick building with yellow-brick trim around every window. Maigret could not recall the number of the house.

  Lapointe sat at the wheel of the little departmental car. Only twice in many years had Madame Maigret driven with her husband in one of these cars.

  They drove past crowded buses. On the sidewalks, people were hurrying along
, leaning forward and clutching their umbrellas, for fear they would be snatched away by the wind.

  They reached Rue Caulaincourt, in Montmartre.

  ‘This is it.”

  In the middle of the square stood a stone sculpture of a man and a woman. The woman was swathed in drapery, but for one exposed breast. On the side where it had been lashed by the rain, the figure was black.

  “Give me a call at the office. I hope to be back there before lunch.”

  Having barely had time to complete one case, he was now embarked on another, about which he as yet knew nothing. He was fond of Lognon. Often, in his official reports, he had stressed his good qualities, and had even gone so far as to attribute to Lognon successes that were really his own. All to no avail. Poor old Inspector Hapless!

  “BichatHospital first…”

  A staircase. Corridors. Open doors, revealing rows of beds, from which rows of eyes stared at the two strangers as they went past.

  They had been misdirected, and so were forced to return downstairs to the courtyard and go up another staircase, where at last they found, on guard outside a door marked surgical wing, an inspector from the Eighteenth Arrondissement whom they knew. His name was Créac, and there was an unlit cigarette between his lips.

  “I think you’d be wise to put your pipe away, Chief Superintendent. There’s a real dragon in there, and she’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks, as she did on me when I tried to light my cigarette…”

  Nurses were going to and fro, carrying enamel jugs and bowls, and trays loaded with little bottles and nickel-plated surgical instruments.

  “Is he still in the operating room?”

  The time was quarter to nine.

  “They’ve been at work on him up there since four o’clock this morning.”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “I went into that office over there on the left to inquire, but the old bag…”

  It was the matron’s office, and the matron, according to Créac, was a dragon. Maigret knocked at the door. An unfriendly voice called out to him to come in.