Maigret and the Man on the Bench by Georges Simenon & David Watson

Author:Georges Simenon & David Watson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

6. The Beggars

‘What’s she doing?’

‘Nothing. She’s sitting bolt upright, chin up, staring straight ahead of her.’

She hadn’t even chosen an armchair to sit on, but one of the hard wooden chairs in the waiting room. Maigret was deliberately letting her stew, as he liked to put it. When Santoni had come at around 9.20 to announce that Monique was there, he had growled:

‘Put her in the cage.’

That was his name for the glass-walled waiting room with its green velour armchairs, where many others before Monique Thouret had lost their nerve.

‘How is she?’

‘In mourning.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘It was almost as if she was expecting to see me there. I was standing two or three metres from the entrance to the building on Rue de Rivoli. When she arrived, I stepped forwards.

‘“Excuse me, mademoiselle . . .”

‘She screwed up her eyes to look at me. She must be short-sighted. Then she said:

‘“Oh! It’s you.”

‘“The detective chief inspector would like to have a word with you . . .”

‘She made no protest. I hailed a taxi, and all the way here she didn’t say a single word.’

Not only had the rain stopped, but the sun had come out. The light even seemed denser than normal, because of the humidity in the air.

Maigret had seen her on his way to the morning briefing, from afar, sitting in her corner. He found her in exactly the same place, half an hour later, on his way back to his office. Later still, he had sent Lucas to take a peek.

‘Is she reading?’

‘No. She isn’t doing anything.’

From where she was sitting she had a view of the Police Judiciaire similar to the one you would get of a restaurant coming through the door. She could see the inspectors walking up and down the corridor with its multiple doors, carrying files in their hands, going into each other’s offices, setting off on assignments or returning from them. Sometimes they paused to exchange a few words on a case in progress; occasionally one would bring in a prisoner in handcuffs or propel in front of him a woman in tears. Other people who had arrived after her had been shown into offices, yet she displayed no sign of impatience.

The telephone in Rue d’Angoulême remained silent. Did Mariette Gibon suspect something? Had the ruse with the pipe rung her alarm bells?

Neveu, who had now been relieved from surveillance duty at the house by a local officer, had nothing unusual to report.

As for Albert Jorisse, they were almost certain that, at six o’clock the previous evening, he was still in Paris. Officer Dambois, who, like everyone else, had received a description of him, had spotted him around that time at the corner of Place Clichy and Boulevard des Batignolles. The young man was coming out of a bar. Did the officer move too quickly to try to apprehend him? Whatever it was that spooked him, Jorisse had run off through the crowd, which was particularly dense. The officer had whistled to alert his colleagues.

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