Maigret and the Tall Woman Read online

  ‘He didn’t push it?’

  ‘He kept on reading whatever he could lay his hands on.’

  ‘Was your husband’s police accreditation in the drawer?’

  ‘Yes. The man put some of the documents in his pocket with the photo. Then he found a bottle of calvados on the top shelf of the sideboard and poured himself a large glass.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘He looked under the bed, like the others, and in the two cupboards. He went back to have another drink in the dining room and then he left with a mocking little wave.’

  ‘Did you notice if he was wearing gloves?’

  ‘Pigskin gloves, yes.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘I think they had gloves on as well. At any rate, the one who threatened me with his gun did.’

  ‘Did you go to the window again?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him leave the building and join one of the two others, the short one, who was waiting for him on the corner of Rue Caulaincourt. I immediately called Rue de La Rochefoucauld station and asked to speak to Lognon. They told me that he had not been seen that morning and that they were not expecting him. When I insisted, they told me that he had not been into the office the night before, even though he was on duty.’

  ‘Did you tell them what had happened?’

  ‘No. I immediately thought of you, inspector. You see, I know Lognon better than anyone. He is sort of person who’s obsessed with doing the right thing. So far he has never had the recognition he deserves, but he has often talked about you. I know you’re not like the others, you don’t envy him, you . . . I am frightened, Monsieur Maigret. He must have gone after people stronger than him and by now, God knows where . . .’

  The telephone rang in the bedroom.

  Madame Lognon started.

  ‘May I?’

  Maigret heard her, suddenly tight-lipped, saying, ‘What? Is that you? Where were you? I rang your office, and they told me that you hadn’t set foot in there since yesterday. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret is here . . .’

  Maigret, who had followed her, stretched out a hand for the receiver.

  ‘Do you mind? . . . Hello, Lognon?’

  Lognon remained silent on the other end of the line, with a fixed stare, no doubt, his teeth clenched.

  ‘Tell me, Lognon, where are you at the moment?’

  ‘At the office.’

  ‘I’m in your apartment with your wife. I need to speak to you. I’ll drop by Rue de La Rochefoucauld, it’s on my way. Wait for me . . . What?’

  ‘I’d rather we didn’t meet here. I’ll explain . . .’ he heard Lognon stammer.

  ‘Be at Quai des Orfèvres in half an hour then.’

  He hung up the telephone and went and fetched his pipe and hat.

  ‘Do you think everything is all right?’

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly so she went on:

  ‘He’s so reckless, so single-minded, that sometimes . . .’

  ‘Send him in.’

  Lognon was soaked and muddy as if he had been roaming the streets all night, and he had such a bad cold that he had to have his handkerchief constantly in his hand. He tilted his head to one side, like someone expecting to be taken to task, and stayed standing in the middle of the room.

  ‘Sit down, Lognon. I’ve just come from your apartment.’

  ‘What did my wife tell you?’

  ‘Everything she knows, I suppose.’

  There followed a fairly long silence, which Lognon took advantage of to blow his nose, without daring to look Maigret in the face. Knowing how touchy he was, Maigret wasn’t sure exactly what approach to take.

  What Madame Lognon had said about her husband wasn’t so far off the mark. In his desire to do the right thing, that halfwit was always getting into scrapes, convinced that the whole world was against him, that he was the victim of a conspiracy to prevent him being promoted and finally assuming his rightful place in the Crime Squad at Quai des Orfèvres.

  What was most distressing was that he wasn’t stupid, he was genuinely conscientious and he was the most honest man on earth.

  ‘Is she in bed?’ he asked finally.

  ‘She was up when I got there.’

  ‘Is she angry with me?’

  ‘Look at me, Lognon. Relax. All I know is what your wife has told me, but I only have to take one look at you to know something’s wrong. I’m not your immediate superior, so whatever you’ve done is none of my concern. But perhaps, now your wife has spoken to me, you’d better fill me in. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I should, yes.’

  ‘In that case, please tell me everything. Do you understand? Not just a part, not almost everything.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. You can smoke.’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  It was true. Maigret had forgotten. He didn’t smoke because of Madame Lognon, whom the smell of tobacco made nauseous.

  ‘What do you know about these gangsters?’

  ‘I think they really are gangsters,’ Lognon said emphatically.

  ‘American?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you come into contact with them?’

  ‘I don’t really know myself. After what I’ve been through, I might as well tell you everything, even if it means losing my job.’

  He stared fixedly at the desk, his lower lip quivering.

  ‘It would have happened sooner or later anyway.’

  ‘What would have?’

  ‘You know very well. They keep me on because they’ve got no choice, they haven’t caught me out yet, but they’ve been watching me for years . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Lognon!’

  ‘Yes, inspector.’

  ‘Will you stop playing the victim?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop hunching your shoulders and looking off in the other direction. Good! Now, talk to me like a man.’

  Lognon wasn’t crying, but his cold was making his eyes water, and it was irritating seeing him constantly bringing his handkerchief to his face.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘It was on Monday night.’

  ‘Were you on duty?’

  ‘Yes. It was about one in the morning. I was on a stakeout.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near the church of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, right by the railings, on the corner of Rue Fléchier.’

  ‘So you weren’t in your sector?’

  ‘Just on the edge. Rue Fléchier is in the third district, but I was watching the little bar at the corner of Rue des Martyrs, which is in my patch. I’d had a tip-off that a guy sometimes went there at night to sell cocaine. Rue Fléchier is dark, almost always empty at that time. I was standing right by the railings round the church. Suddenly a car turned the corner of Rue de Châteaudun, slowed down and pulled up for a moment less than ten metres away from me. The people inside didn’t suspect I was there. The door opened, and a body was thrown on the pavement; then the car set off again towards Rue Saint-Lazare.’

  ‘Did you get its number?’

  ‘Yes. I rushed over to the body first. I’d almost swear the man was dead, but I am not completely sure. I felt his chest in the dark, and my hand came away sticky with blood that was still warm.’

  Frowning, Maigret muttered:

  ‘I didn’t see anything about this in the report.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘This happened on Rue Fléchier, so on the pavement in the third district.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is it that . . .’

  ‘I am going to tell you. I know I was wrong. Maybe you won’t believe me.’

  ‘What happened to the body?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m getting to that. There wasn’t a policeman anywhere. The little bar was open, less than a hundred metres away. I went there to telephone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The station in the
third district.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I stopped at the bar to ask for a token. I automatically glanced at the street and saw a second car leaving Rue Fléchier, speeding off down Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. It had stopped near where I’d left the body. I ran out of the bar to try to see the number, but the car was already too far away.’

  ‘A taxi?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It all happened so fast. I had a hunch and ran towards the church. The body wasn’t there, by the railings.’

  ‘Didn’t you raise the alarm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you that by putting out the number of the first car the police would have a chance of catching it?’

  ‘I thought that. But it seemed to me that the men involved weren’t stupid enough to drive around in the same car for very long.’

  ‘You didn’t file a report?’

  Maigret had, of course, understood. Poor Lognon had been waiting for the big case that would put him in the limelight for years. Bad luck really did seem to follow him around. His sector had one of the heaviest crime rates, but every time a crime was committed either he wasn’t on duty or the Crime Squad would take over the investigation.

  ‘I know it was wrong of me. I realized almost immediately but, because I hadn’t given the alarm, it was already too late.’

  ‘Did you find the car?’

  ‘I went to the Préfecture in the morning, checked the lists and found out the car was from a garage in Porte Maillot. It’s a place that hires out cars without a driver by the day or the month.’

  ‘Had the car been returned?’

  ‘No. It had been rented two days earlier for an unspecified amount of time. I saw the customer card: someone called Bill Larner, an American citizen, resident at the Hôtel Wagram, Avenue Wagram.’

  ‘Did you find Larner there?’

  ‘He had left the hotel around four in the morning.’

  ‘You mean he was in his room until then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he wasn’t in the car?’

  ‘Definitely not. The night porter saw him come in around midnight. Larner got a telephone call at 3.30 and left almost immediately.’

  ‘With his luggage?’

  ‘No. On his way out he said he was going to pick up a friend at the train station and that he would be back for breakfast.’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t come back.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘It was found the next morning near Gare du Nord.’

  Lognon blew his nose again, then looked at Maigret contritely.

  ‘It was wrong of me, I’ll say it again. Today’s Thursday, and I have been trying since Tuesday morning to put it right. I haven’t gone home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My wife must have told you that they came on Tuesday not long after I left. It’s a clue, isn’t it?’

  Maigret listened.

  ‘In my opinion, it means that, after throwing the body on the pavement, they saw me in the shadows. They thought that I must have taken down the number – I mean the number of the first car, of course, because there were two. They dumped it as soon as they could. Then they telephoned Bill Larner, knowing we would probably pick up his trail from the customer card at the garage.’

  Maigret was doodling on his blotter as he listened.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just speculating. They must have combed through the newspapers and not found any mention of the business.’

  ‘Do you have an idea how they found you?’

  ‘I can only think of one explanation, which would prove they’re very good, these people, professionals. That is that they were waiting near the garage, saw me arrive to make inquiries, then followed me. I went home for lunch and when I left they broke into the apartment.’

  ‘Where they hoped to find the body?’

  ‘Do you think so too?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Why haven’t you been back home since?’

  ‘Because I assume they’re watching the house.’

  ‘Afraid, Lognon?’

  Lognon’s cheeks turned as red as his bulbous nose.

  ‘I thought people would think that. But it’s not true. I just wanted to be free to move around. I took a room in a little hotel on Place Clichy and kept in touch with my wife by telephone. Since then I’ve been working day and night. I’ve visited over a hundred hotels, in the Quartier des Ternes first, then around Avenue de Wagram, then over by Opéra. My wife described the two men who came to the apartment. I went to the immigration bureau at the Préfecture. At the same time, I have been doing all my usual work.’

  ‘So, in a nutshell, you hoped to conduct this investigation by yourself?’

  ‘At first, yes. I thought I was up to it. Now they’ll do whatever they want with me.’

  Poor Lognon! There were moments when, for all his forty-seven years and unprepossessing appearance, he seemed like a sulky kid, a kid at an awkward age giving the grown-ups aggressive, shifty looks.

  ‘Your wife received a second visit this morning and, as she couldn’t reach you, she called me.’

  Lognon gave Maigret a despondent look, as if to say that he had reached a point where nothing mattered to him any more.

  ‘It wasn’t one of the two men from Tuesday, but a tall man with blond, almost red hair . . .’

  ‘Bill Larner,’ muttered Lognon. ‘That’s how he was described to me.’

  ‘He met up with one of the other two downstairs. He pocketed a photo of you, and probably some papers too.’

  ‘I suppose I’m going to be up before the disciplinary board?’

  ‘There’ll be time to discuss that afterwards.’

  ‘After what?’

  ‘After the investigation.’

  Lognon frowned, grim-faced, his eyes disbelieving.

  ‘The first thing to do now is to find these characters, don’t you think?’

  ‘You mean me too?’

  Maigret didn’t reply, and Lognon blew his nose for at least three minutes.

  When he left the office, anyone would have sworn he had been crying.

  THE BEGINNING

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  PENGUIN BOOKS

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  Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  First published in French as Maigret et la Grande Perche by Presses de la Cité 1951

  This translation first published 2016

  Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1951

  Translation copyright © David Watson, 2016

  GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm

  MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited

  Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes

  The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted

  ISBN: 978-0-141-98397-4

 

 

 
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