Maigret in Vichy, page 16
‘They didn’t grasp it straight away. They’ll both be going to pieces now.’
‘Are they young?’
‘The man must be a bit over forty-five, but I would say less than fifty. His wife looks barely forty and she’s very pretty. You know Mylène perfumes?’
Of course. Everyone—’
‘Well, it’s them.’
‘They’re very rich. They have a chateau in the Sologne, a yacht in Cannes and they give glittering parties.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You forget that I sometimes spend hours waiting for you, and I sometimes read the newspaper gossip columns.’
She poured some rum into a glass, added some sugar, left in the spoon so that the glass didn’t shatter and added boiling water.
‘A slice of lemon?’
‘No.’
The room felt small and cramped. He looked around at the decor like someone coming back from a long journey.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘As you said, they’re very rich. They live in one of the most sumptuous apartments I’ve ever seen. They were coming back from the theatre, still in high spirits. They saw me sitting at the end of the hall. The maid told them in a low voice who I was.’
‘Take your clothes off.’
In the end, weren’t he and his wife better off here? He put on his pyjamas and went to brush his teeth, and a quarter of an hour later, a little light-headed because of the rum, he was in bed next to Madame Maigret.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, bringing her face close to his.
He kissed her, as he had done for so many years, and murmured:
‘Goodnight.’
‘As usual?’
That meant:
‘Shall I wake you up at seven thirty as usual, with your coffee?’
He muttered an already vague ‘yes’, because sleep had suddenly hit him. He didn’t dream. At any rate, if he did, he didn’t remember it. And all of a sudden it was morning.
As he drank his coffee, sitting up in bed, and his wife opened the curtains, he tried to see through the tulle covering the lower parts of the windows.
‘Is it still raining?’
‘No. But judging by the way the men are walking with their hands deep in their pockets, it isn’t spring yet, whatever the calendar says.’
It was 19 March. A Wednesday. His first task was to telephone the Saint-Antoine Hospital, and he had a great deal of trouble getting through to a member of the administrative staff.
‘Yes. I would like him to be put in a special room … I know he’s dead. That’s no reason for his parents to go and see him in the basement. They’ll be there in an hour or two. After their visit, the body will be transferred to the Forensic Institute … Yes. Don’t worry. The family will pay … Yes. They will fill in as many forms as you like.’
He sat down opposite his wife and ate two croissants while drinking a fresh cup of coffee and looking mechanically into the street. There were still clouds moving very low in the sky, but they weren’t the same unhealthy colour as the previous day. The wind, which was still strong, shook the branches of the trees.
‘Do you have any idea …?’
‘You know I never have ideas.’
‘And if you do you never say so. Didn’t you think Pardon looked terrible?’
‘Did you notice that too? He isn’t just tired, he’s getting pessimistic. Yesterday he talked to me about his profession as he has never done before.’
At nine o’clock he was in his office, and called the eleventh arrondissement station.
‘Maigret here. Is that you, Louvelle?’
He had recognized his voice.
‘I expect you’re calling about the tape recorder?’
‘Yes. Have you got it?’
‘Demarie collected it and brought it here. I was worried that the rain might have ruined it, but I got it working. I wonder why the boy recorded these conversations.’
‘Can you send me the recorder this morning?’
‘At the same time as the report, which will be typed up in a few minutes.’
Some mail. Some filing. The previous evening, he hadn’t told Padron that he too was weighed down under administrative paperwork.
Then he went to the morning briefing in the commissioner’s office. In a few words he gave an account of what had happened the previous day, because of Gérard Batille’s celebrity the case risked causing a stir.
In fact, when he got back to his office, he bumped into a group of journalists and photographers.
‘Is it true that you almost witnessed a murder?’
‘I only got to the scene quite quickly because I was very close by.’
‘Is it true that this boy, Antoine Batille, is the son of Batille the perfume-maker?’
How had the press found out? Did the leak come from the station?
‘The concierge says—’
‘Which concierge?’
‘The one on Quai d’Anjou.’
He hadn’t even seen her. He hadn’t given her his name, or his title. The maid must have talked.
‘It was you who told the parents, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did they react?’
‘Like a man and a woman who are being informed that their son has been killed.’
‘Do they suspect anyone?’
‘No?’
‘Don’t you think it might be a political matter?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘A love affair, then?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And nothing was taken, was it?’
‘No.’
‘So?’
‘So, nothing, gentlemen. The investigation is just beginning, and when it has yielded some results, I’ll pass them on.’
‘Have you seen the daughter?’
‘Who?’
‘Minou. The Batilles’ daughter. Apparently she’s famous in certain well-heeled circles.’
‘I haven’t seen her, no.’
‘She keeps strange company.’
‘You tell me that, but I’m not investigating her.’
‘You never know, do you.’
He forced his way through them, pushed open the door of his office and closed it again. He gave himself enough time to stuff a pipe, standing by the window, and then opened the door to the inspectors’ office. They weren’t all there yet. Some were making phone calls, others typing up their reports.
‘Are you busy, Janvier?’
‘Another ten lines to type, chief, and I’ll be done.’
‘Come and see me.’
While he was waiting, he phoned the forensic doctor who had replaced his old friend Dr Paul.
‘We’ll send it to you towards the end of the morning … Yes, it’s urgent, less because I’m waiting for the post-mortem than because the parents are impatient … Do as little damage to him as possible … Yes … That’s right … I see you understand … Much of Paris high society will pass to pay their respects. I’ve already got journalists in the corridor.’
The first thing was to go to Rue Popincourt. The previous day, Gino Pagliati hadn’t had time to tell him much, and his wife had barely opened her mouth. Then there was the man called Jules and the three other card players. Finally, Maigret remembered the silhouette of the old woman he had seen at a window.
‘What are we doing, chief?’ Janvier asked as he came into the office.
‘Is there a free car in the courtyard?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Drive me to Rue Popincourt. Not far from Rue du Chemin-Vert. I’ll tell you where to stop.’
His wife was right, he noticed as he waited for the car in the middle of the courtyard: it was as cold as December.
THE BEGINNING
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First published in serial, as Maigret à Vichy, in Le Figaro 1968
First published in book form by Presses de la Cité 1968
This translation first published 2019
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1968
Translation copyright © Ros Schwartz, 2019
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-241-30422-8
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Georges Simenon, Maigret in Vichy
