Maigret's Revolver by Sian Reynolds & Georges Simenon

Author:Sian Reynolds & Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

6.

In which Maigret goes so far as to wear a carnation in his buttonhole, but has very little success

They ran into cloud cover as they approached the French coast and flew up above it. Through a break in the clouds a little later, Maigret caught a lucky glimpse of the sea, sparkling as if covered in silvery scales, and of fishing boats trailing a wake of foam.

His neighbour leaned across amicably to point out the white cliffs, explaining:

‘That’s Dover . . . Douvres.’

He thanked the man with a smile, and soon there was only a thin haze between the aeroplane and the earth beneath. Occasionally, they came to a large luminous cloud and emerged from it to see green fields down below, dotted with miniature cows.

Finally, the horizon tilted and Croydon airport came into view. And so, once they had landed, did Mr Pyke. Because Mr Pyke was waiting to greet his French colleague. Not on the airfield itself, as he would no doubt have been entitled to do, and not standing apart from the crowd either, but with all the other people behind the barriers separating passengers from their waiting friends and relations.

He did not make conspicuous signs, or wave a handkerchief. When Maigret looked in his direction, he simply gave a little nod of the head, as he probably did every morning to greet colleagues at the office.

They had not seen each other for some time, and it was twelve or thirteen years since Maigret had set foot in England.

He followed the queue, suitcase in hand, entered the building for customs and immigration, and Mr Pyke was still there, behind a glass partition, wearing his dark-grey, rather too tight-fitting suit and his black trilby, and sporting a carnation in his buttonhole.

The Englishman could easily have entered the building and told the passport control officer: ‘This is a VIP, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, who is visiting us . . .’

That was what Maigret would have done for him at Le Bourget. But he took no offence, understanding that it was, on the contrary, an example of his colleague’s tact. Now he felt a little ashamed at his own irritation that morning towards the official at the Yard. Because if Pyke was here, it meant that the man he had spoken to had not done his job badly, indeed he had shown initiative. It was only half past ten. To reach Croydon in time, Pyke must have left London almost as soon as he walked into his office.

Maigret emerged through the doors. A dry, horny hand was thrust towards him.

‘Comment allez-vous?’

And Pyke continued, still in French – a sacrifice for him, since he spoke it with difficulty and was ashamed of making mistakes.

‘I hope you – er – enjoy? How do you say that? Yes, enjoy this beautiful day.’

In fact, it was the first time Maigret had visited England in summer and he wondered whether he had ever seen London bathed in sunlight.

‘I thought you might prefer to travel by car, rather than in the airport bus.

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