Maigret In Montmartre by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-03-17T15:13:13+00:00

* * *

Chapter Six

Lognon came in, driving his prisoner in front of him. Maigret noticed that the young man’s hair was so long that it made a kind of pad at the back of his neck, and that he was carrying a heavy brown canvas hold-all, clumsily mended with string, its weight pulling him to one side as he walked.

Opening the door that led to the Inspectors’ office, the Inspector signed to the young man to go in there.

“See what’s inside that,” he said to his waiting subordinates, pointing to the hold-all.

About to close the door, he had a second thought

“Make him let his trousers down, to see if he’s got needle-marks.”

Alone with the gloomy Lognon, he turned and looked at him benevolently. He was not disturbed by the man’s bad temper, and knew his wife did not lead him a very pleasant life. Some of the other men had tried to be friendly with Lognon. But he was too much for them. The mere sight of his glum face, with its perpetual air of foreseeing disaster, was enough to provoke a shrug or a grin.

Maigret rather suspected that he had developed a taste for bad luck and ill-temper and adopted them as his pet vices gloating over them just as some old men gloat over their chronic bronchitis and the sympathy it earns for them.

“Well, old chap?”

“Well, here I am.”

That meant that Lognon was ready to answer questions, since he was a mere underling, but that he thought it outrageous to have to present a report—he, who would have led the investigation if it hadn’t been for the Judicial Police—he, who knew his district inside out and had not allowed himself a moment’s rest since the previous day.

His pursed lips said more clearly than words: “I know what will happen. It’s always like this. You’ll pick my brains, and to-morrow or next day the papers will announce that Inspector Maigret has cleared up the crime. With the usual talk about his unerring instinct and his methods.”

Lognon, in fact, didn’t believe in all that, and this probably accounted for his attitude. If Maigret was an Inspector, and the other fellows here were in the Special Branch instead of kicking their heels in a district police station, it was only because they’d been lucky, or pulled strings, or knew how to make anything of themselves.

In his opinion, he was as good as the best of them.

“Where did you pick up that lad?”

“At the Gare du Nord.”

“When?”

“This morning, at half past six. Before it was light.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I’ve known it for ages. This is the eighth time I’ve arrested him. He’s best known by his first name, Philippe. His full name is Philippe Mortemart, and his father is a professor at Nancy University.”

It was unusual for Lognon to provide so much information in one breath. His shoes were muddy, and as they were old they must have let the water in; his trousers were damp up to the knees, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weary.

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