Maigret Defends Himself Read online

  Maigret looked his grumpiest, fiddling with an empty pipe without daring to fill it. He added, rather as if to tempt fate:

  ‘Three years from retirement.’

  ‘Indeed. Don’t you think that’s rather a long time?’

  He felt himself turn red. In order not to lose his temper, he stared at the bronze adornments on the feet of the desk.

  ‘Did you go straight into the Police Judiciaire?’

  The voice still had the same softness, an impersonal softness, perhaps something he’d learned.

  ‘In my day, you didn’t start in the Police Judiciaire. Like all my colleagues at the time, I began in a local station, the one in the ninth arrondissement.’

  ‘In uniform?’

  ‘I was the chief inspector’s secretary. Later, I had a period on the beat.’

  The prefect was studying him with a curiosity that was neither benevolent nor aggressive.

  ‘And then you worked in several different squads?’

  ‘The Métro, the department stores, the railway stations, vice, gambling …’

  ‘It seems to have left you with pleasant memories.’

  ‘Just like my school years.’

  ‘I mention it because you talk about it at every opportunity.’

  This time, Maigret turned crimson.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Unless other people talk about it on your behalf. You’re very well known, Monsieur Maigret, very popular …’

  So soft did the voice remain that it might have been thought the prefect had summoned him to offer his congratulations.

  ‘Your methods, according to the newspapers, are quite dramatic …’

  He stood up and walked over to the window, where for a moment he looked at the cars and buses passing the Palais de Justice. When he came back to the middle of the room, his smile – and hence his self-satisfaction – had become more pronounced.

  ‘You’re at the top of the ladder now, head of the Crime Squad, and yet you haven’t abandoned the habits you picked up early in your career. You don’t spend much time in your office, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘No, sir, not very much.’

  ‘You like to deal in person with tasks that would normally be handled by your inspectors.’

  Silence.

  ‘Including what you call stakeouts.’

  This time, Maigret made up his mind. He gritted his teeth and filled his pipe.

  ‘So, for example, you can be seen spending hours on end in little bars and cafés, in all sorts of places one wouldn’t expect to come across a public servant of your rank.’

  Was he going to light his pipe or not? He didn’t yet dare. He held back, still in his armchair, while the thin, elegant prefect came and went on the other side of the mahogany desk.

  ‘These are outdated methods, which may have had some merit in their time.’

  The striking of the match made the prefect jump, but he offered no comment. For a fraction of a second, his smile faded, then returned, just the same as before.

  ‘That old style of policing has its traditions. Informers, for example. You maintain cordial relations with people who live on the fringes of the law; you turn a blind eye to their peccadilloes and in return they give you a helping hand … Do you still use informers, Monsieur Maigret?’

  ‘Like every police force in the world.’

  ‘Do you also turn a blind eye?’

  ‘When necessary.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever noticed that lots of things have changed since the days when you started?’

  ‘I’ve seen nine commissioners and eleven prefects come and go.’

  Too bad! It was a question of being true to himself, and to all his colleagues at police headquarters, the veterans anyway – the young inspectors tended to think the same way as this tennis player.

  If the prefect registered the blow, nothing appeared on the surface. He could have been a diplomat. It was quite possible he might end up as an ambassador.

  ‘Are you familiar with Mademoiselle Prieur?’

  The real attack was starting. On what grounds? Maigret wasn’t yet in a position to guess.

  ‘Should I be, sir?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Well, it’s the first time I’ve heard the name.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Nicole Prieur … Have you also never heard of Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Prieur, Master of Requests at the Council of State?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘He lives at 42, Boulevard de Courcelles.’

  ‘That may well be the case.’

  ‘He’s Nicole’s uncle. She lives with him.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘Let me ask you, detective chief inspector, where you were at one a.m. last night.’

  This time, the tone was more abrupt, and the smile had gone from his eyes.

  ‘I’m waiting for your reply.’

  ‘Is this an interrogation?’

  ‘How you take it is up to you. I asked you a specific question.’

  ‘May I ask in what capacity?’

  ‘As your superior in the chain of command.’

  ‘I see.’

  Maigret took his time. He had never felt so humiliated in his life, and his fingers had tightened so much on the bowl of his pipe that they had turned white.

  ‘I went to bed at ten thirty, after watching television with my wife.’

  ‘Did you have dinner at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time did you go out?’

  ‘I’m getting to that, sir. Just before midnight, the phone rang.’

  ‘I assume your number is in the directory?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Isn’t that inconvenient? Doesn’t it make it possible for all kinds of people, including practical jokers, to call you directly?’

  ‘I used to think that, too. For years, my number wasn’t listed, but people always found it out in the end anyway. After changing numbers five or six times, I let it appear in the directory, like everyone else.’

  ‘Which is convenient for your informers. They can call you directly instead of calling the Police Judiciaire, and as far as the public are concerned, you get all the credit for solving a case.’

  Maigret managed to keep silent.

  ‘So – you received a call just before midnight. How long before midnight?’

  ‘It was dark when I answered the phone. It was a long conversation. When my wife switched on the light, it was ten to midnight.’

  ‘Who was phoning you at such an hour? Someone you knew?’

  ‘No. A woman.’

  ‘Did she tell you her name?’

  ‘Not just then.’

  ‘You mean, not in the course of this telephone conversation you say you had with her?’

  ‘Which I did have.’

  ‘Very well! She arranged to meet you in town?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He was beginning to realize that he had been naive, although it pained him to admit it to this greenhorn with his smug smile.

  ‘She had just arrived in Paris, where she’d never set foot before.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m repeating what she told me. She added that she was the daughter of a magistrate in La Rochelle, that she was eighteen, that she felt stifled by her very strict family, especially as a school friend of hers, who’s been here for a year, kept telling her about the delights and opportunities available in Paris.’

  ‘Not very original, is it?’

  ‘I’ve had confessions that were less original than that but were genuine all the same. Do you know the number of girls, some from good families, as they say, who every year—’

  ‘I read the statistics.’

  ‘I grant you her story wasn’t new. If it had been any newer, I might not have gone to the trouble I did. She’d left home without telling her parents, taking with her a suitcase of clothes and personal belongings as well as her sa
vings … Her friend was waiting for her at Gare Montparnasse, but she wasn’t alone. A man in his thirties was with her, and she introduced him as her fiancé.’

  ‘A tall, dark stranger, the kind the fortune-tellers always mention?’

  ‘They got into a red Lancia, and about ten minutes later stopped in front of a hotel.’

  ‘Do you know which hotel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor, I suppose, in which area it’s located?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir, but in my career I’ve known stories much more far-fetched than this one that turned out to be true. This young girl didn’t know Paris. This was her first time here. A childhood friend was waiting for her and introduced her to her fiancé. She was driven down streets and boulevards she’d never seen before. They stopped at last in front of what looked like a third-class hotel, where she left her bags, and they took her out to dinner. They plied her with drinks …’

  Maigret remembered the pathetic voice on the telephone, the simple but apt and moving words, words that – or so it seemed to him – it was impossible to make up.

  ‘It’s true I’m still a bit drunk,’ she had admitted. ‘I don’t even know what I drank … “Come and see my apartment,” my friend said. And the two of them took me to a kind of modern studio apartment, where I started to panic as soon as I saw the prints and especially the photographs on the walls. My friend laughed. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Show her, Marco, that it’s not so terrible.” ’

  ‘If I understand correctly, she told you all this on the telephone, and you were listening in bed, with Madame Maigret next to you.’

  ‘That’s right, except that there may have been some details she only told me later.’

  ‘So this continued later?’

  ‘It got to a point where she felt she had to run away, and she found herself alone in Paris, without her luggage, without her handbag, without her money.’

  ‘And that was when it occurred to her to phone you? Obviously, she knew your name through the newspapers. She didn’t have her handbag, but she found the money to call you from a public telephone.’

  ‘From a café, where she went in, ordered a drink and asked for a telephone token. Café owners don’t usually ask to be paid in advance.’

  ‘So you flew to her rescue. Why didn’t you ask the local police to help her out?’

  Because Maigret had had his doubts, but he was determined not to mention them. From now on, in any case, he would say as little as possible.

  ‘You see, detective chief inspector, the young woman in question isn’t from the provinces at all, and her version of events bears no relation to yours. Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Prieur was worried this morning when his niece didn’t come to breakfast and he discovered that she wasn’t in her room. She returned in a dishevelled state, almost distraught, at eight thirty this morning. The story she told had such an effect on Monsieur Prieur that he personally telephoned the minister of the interior. When I was then informed, I sent someone to take a statement in shorthand from Mademoiselle Prieur … You’re three years from retirement, Monsieur Maigret.’

  Pardon’s words came back to him.

  ‘Tell me something … In your career, have you ever encountered …’

  Pure spite! Wickedness for its own sake! A wicked act committed in full awareness!

  But who?

  ‘What do you want from me, sir? My resignation?’

  ‘I would have to accept it.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  ‘I’d like you to read the young lady’s account, which has been typed up. Then I’d like you to put down in writing your version of events, just as you’ve told it to me. Naturally, I forbid you to bother Mademoiselle Prieur or to question anyone about her. I’ll summon you again when I’ve received your statement.’

  He walked to the door and opened it, a vague smile still on his lips.

  2.

  Having spurned the lift, Maigret was on the third or fourth step of the white marble staircase when the door opened again. It was the one-armed clerk, who certainly couldn’t play tennis every morning.

  ‘The prefect would like you to come back for a moment, detective chief inspector.’

  He stood there for a moment, irresolute, not knowing if he should go back up the few steps or continue on his way down. He finally walked back across the waiting room, and the prefect himself opened his door to him.

  ‘I forgot to make it clear that I don’t want any rumour about this business at Quai des Orfèvres. In particular, I’ll hold you personally responsible if anything leaks out to the press.’

  As Maigret remained motionless, he added by way of farewell:

  ‘I’m grateful to you.’

  ‘Likewise, sir.’

  Had he said that or hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember. He went back past the clerk, to whom he waved, and walked down the marble staircase, all the way this time. Outside, he was surprised to be back in the sun and the heat, among men and women in motion, the stream of cars, the colours and smells of daily life.

  There was a sudden spasm in his chest and, like a man with a heart condition, he mechanically raised his hand to it and stopped walking.

  Pardon had assured him it was nothing, just aerophagia. These attacks were frightening nonetheless, especially when they were accompanied by dizziness. The objects and people around him became less real, as in an out-of-focus photograph or one where the camera has moved.

  At the corner of the boulevard, he walked into a café-bar, half the windows of which had a view of the riverbank. For years, he had been in the habit of dropping in here for a quick drink.

  ‘A draught beer, inspector?’

  He was having difficulty breathing. His forehead was covered in sweat, and he looked at himself anxiously in the mirror between the bottles lined up on the shelf.

  ‘A cognac.’

  He was no longer red, but pale, his gaze fixed.

  ‘Large or small?’

  ‘Large!’ he said ironically.

  Again because of Pardon. It was incredible how important that conversation, apparently so trivial, which he had had with his friend was coming to seem. Pardon had advised him to drink less, even though he himself, while smoking cigars at home to please his wife, lost no time, once he was outside, in lighting a cigarette.

  ‘In your career, have you ever encountered …’

  A spiteful criminal, one who committed wicked acts for their own sake.

  He hadn’t even smiled ironically.

  ‘Give me another one, François.’

  It was 11.40 according to the clock. It had all happened in less than half an hour, half an hour that had opened up a kind of chasm in his life. From now on, there was the past and the present, before and after. But was there an after?

  His vision was still blurred. What if he fell, right here, on the tiled floor of the café, surrounded by people having their aperitif and taking no notice of him?

  Come on, Maigret! No sentimentality. No childishness. How many of the men he had interrogated in his office had felt their heart beating too fast, or had had the impression it was stopping altogether? He had served them a glass of cognac, too, from the bottle kept in his cupboard.

  ‘What do I owe you?’

  He paid. He felt hot. It really was hot. The other people here were also mopping their foreheads with their handkerchieves from time to time. Why was François looking at him as if he had suddenly changed?

  He didn’t zigzag. He wasn’t drunk. You don’t get drunk on two glasses of cognac, even large ones. He waited patiently for the lights to change, then crossed and headed for the famous 36, Quai des Orfèvres.

  He was no longer angry at that snotty-nosed prefect, although a little earlier he would happily have punched him in the face. In this affair, the prefect was merely a pawn.

  True, he didn’t like police officers of the old school. Among the heads of departments, Maigret was the last of them. He had seen the others retire one by one and
had had to get used to younger faces and a different view of the profession.

  Almost the only veteran left at the Police Judiciaire was old Barnacle, an inspector who was already there when Maigret had arrived and was still in the same post, because he hadn’t managed to pass a single exam.

  They called him the Sniffler, because of his almost constant head cold, or else Bigfoot. He could never find shoes his size, which meant that his feet were always sore. Since they couldn’t use him for more difficult tasks, he was the one they sent door to door, like a vacuum-cleaner salesman, to question the concierges, even the inhabitants of an entire street.

  Poor Barnacle! Maigret had never felt so close to him. He would be leaving in three months. And Maigret?

  He raised his hand to greet the men on duty and slowly climbed the stairs, stopping halfway up because he again had the feeling his heart wasn’t beating regularly.

  He walked into his office, closed the door behind him and looked around him as if what he was seeing was unusual, even though he knew the slightest detail. With the passing of the years, the objects had had time to become set in aspic, to come to look permanent. He was tempted to open the cupboard that contained the wash-basin and the famous bottle of cognac for clients who felt faint.

  Shrugging, he entered the inspectors’ room.

  ‘Anything new, boys?’

  They looked at him the same way François, the waiter in the bar, had done. Lucas stood up.

  ‘Another raid on a jeweller’s.’

  ‘Do you mind dealing with it?’

  He stood there, hovering between reality and unreality.

  ‘Phone my wife and tell her I won’t be home for lunch. And before you leave, order me a few sandwiches and some beer.’

  His colleagues were wondering what was going on with him. What could he tell them? He didn’t know himself yet. For the first time, he was the one under attack, the one being asked to account for his actions.

  He took off his jacket, opened the other half of the window and collapsed into his armchair. Six pipes were lined up on his desk, files he hadn’t yet opened, documents to be signed, too, no doubt.

  He chose a pipe, the biggest one, and slowly filled it. When he lit it, it didn’t taste good. He had to stand to get from his jacket the papers the prefect had given him.