Maigret 040 (1952) - Maigret's Revolver by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Format: epub
Published: 1952-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

SIX

There were clouds as they approached the French coast, and they flew above them. Through a large break, a little while later, Maigret had a chance of glimpsing the sea, which sparkled like fishes’ scales, and fishing boats trailing their foamy wake behind them.

His neighbor leaned over in a friendly way to point out some chalky cliffs to him, explaining:

“Dover…Douvres…”

He thanked him with a smile, and soon there was nothing more than an almost transparent mist between the earth and the plane. Only now and then did they fly into a large, luminous cloud, from which they emerged almost immediately, to find beneath them once more pastures dotted with tiny cows.

Finally the landscape rocked, and it was Croydon. It was also Mr. Pyke. For Mr. Pyke was there, awaiting his French colleague. Not on the airstrip itself, as he doubtless would have had the right to be, not away from the crowd, but with it, wisely, behind the barrier separating passengers from relatives and friends waiting for them.

He made no gesticulation, didn’t wave his handkerchief. When Maigret looked in his direction, he merely nodded his head, as he must do every morning on meeting his colleagues at the office.

It was years since they had seen each other, and twelve or thirteen years since the Superintendent had set foot in England.

He followed the line of people, suitcase in hand, into a building where he had to go through Immigration, then through Customs. Mr. Pyke was still there, behind a glass panel, in his dark-gray suit, which looked a little too tight for him, and his black felt hat, a carnation in his buttonhole.

He could have come in here as well, told the Immigration official: “It’s Superintendent Maigret, who’s come to see us…”

Maigret would have done that for him at Le Bourget. He did not mind, however, understanding that it was, on the contrary, a sort of tact on his part. Actually, he felt rather ashamed of his anger that morning with the policeman at the Yard. The fact that Mr. Pyke was there showed that the man had not done his job so badly, had even showed initiative. It was only half past ten. To reach Croydon in time, Pyke must have left London almost as soon as he arrived at his office.

Maigret was coming out of the room. The dry, hard hand was extended.

“How are you?”

Pyke went on, in French, which was a sacrifice on his part, since he spoke it with difficulty and hated making mistakes:

“J’espère que vous allez…enjoy…How do you say it?…Jouir…Oui, jouir de cette journée resplendissante.”

It was in fact the first time Maigret had been in England in summer, and he wondered if he had ever seen London in real sunshine.

“I thought you would rather go by car than in the airline bus.”

He did not speak to him about his investigation, made no reference to it, and that was again all part of his sort of tact. They took their seats in a Yard Bentley, driven by

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