Maigret’s Dead Man by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-03-17T15:13:08+00:00

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SIX

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Two police cars had drawn up on Rue de Rivoli, at the corner of Rue Vieille du Temple, and for a moment the street light had glinted on the silver buttons of police uniforms. Then the men had gone off to their posts, blocking a certain number of streets where plain-clothes men were already stationed.

Then, behind the police cars, came the Black Marias. Just at the corner of Rue du Roi de Sicile, a policeman stood with his eyes fixed on his watch.

People passing down Rue St. Antoine looked around uneasily and walked on faster. In the district that was being surrounded, a few lighted windows could still be seen, a little light in the doorways of rooming houses and the light over the brothel on Rue des Rosiers.

The policeman, with his eyes still fixed on his stop watch, was counting the last seconds, and beside him Maigret, looking unconcerned or only slightly ill at ease, kept his hands in his overcoat pockets and let his eyes roam.

Forty… fifty… sixty… two strident blasts of a whistle were promptly answered by other whistles. The uniformed police constables moved down the streets in extended formation, while the plain-clothes men went into the disreputable-looking hotels.

As always happens on such occasions, windows opened here and there; in the darkness white figures could be seen leaning out, displaying anxiety or annoyance. Voices were heard. A policeman passed, driving in front of him a prostitute, found lurking in a corner, who was swearing at him in foul language.

Hurried footsteps sounded, too, as men tried to escape, plunging into the darkness of the alleys—in vain, since they only ran into some other police cordon.

“Papers!”

Pocket flashlights went on and lit up suspicious-looking faces, filthy passports and identity cards. At the windows, there were spectators who knew by experience that they would not get any more sleep for a long time and settled down to watch the raid as though it were an entertainment.

The biggest game had already been brought in to the police station. These were the people who had not waited for the raid. When they learned that a man had been killed in the neighborhood late that afternoon, they had anticipated it. And as soon as night fell, shadows had crept along the walls, men carrying old suitcases or curious bundles had walked straight into the arms of Maigret’s detectives.

There were all sorts of them: an ex-convict prohibited from entering the area, pimps, forged identity cards, as usual, Poles and Italians whose papers were not in order.

All of them, as they tried to brazen it out, were asked the same curt question:

“Where are you going?”

“I’m moving out.”

“Why?”

Anxious or angry eyes in the darkness.

“I’ve found work.”

“Where?”

Some of them spoke of going to join a sister in the North or near Toulouse.

“In you get, anyhow!”

The Black Maria. A night in the police station, while their identities were checked. These were poor wretches for the most part, but few of them had a clear conscience.

“No Czechs so far, Chief,” Maigret had been told.

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