Maigret at Picratt's by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780141982182
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2016-10-06T04:00:00+00:00

6.

When Lognon came in, pushing in front of him his prisoner, whose hair was so long that it bunched in a roll at the nape of his neck, Maigret noticed that the latter was carrying a heavy, brown canvas case, held together with string, which was making him walk lopsided.

Maigret opened a door and ushered the young man into the inspectors’ office.

‘See what’s in there,’ he told his men, pointing at the suitcase.

Then, as he was walking away, he had another thought.

‘Get him to take down his trousers to see if he injects.’

Alone with Lognon, he observed the hard-done-by inspector benignly. He didn’t begrudge him his ill-humour, knowing that his wife didn’t help make his life a pleasant experience. He wasn’t the only one of his colleagues who was perfectly willing to be agreeable to Lognon. But it was too much for them. The moment they saw his lugubrious face, always looking as if he sensed some impending doom, they couldn’t help shrugging their shoulders or smiling.

At heart, Maigret suspected he enjoyed grumbling about his misfortune and had turned it into his personal vice, which he lovingly nurtured the way some old men nurture their chronic bronchitis to earn people’s pity.

‘Well, my friend?’

‘Well, here we are.’

Which meant that Lognon was ready to answer any questions, since he was merely a low-ranking police officer, but that he thought it outrageous that his good self, to whom the investigation would have fallen if the Police Judiciaire hadn’t existed, who knew his neighbourhood like the back of his hand and who hadn’t allowed himself a minute’s rest since the previous evening, should now have to account for himself.

The downturn of his mouth eloquently communicated:

‘I know what’s going to happen. It’s always the way. You’re going to worm everything I know out of me, and tomorrow – or soon, at any rate – the newspapers will announce that Detective Chief Inspector Maigret has solved the problem. Yet again they’ll go on about his intuition, his methods.’

At heart, Lognon didn’t believe a word of it, which probably explained his attitude. The fact that Maigret was a detective chief inspector, that other men in the building were in the special squad rather than kicking their heels outside a local police station, was simply because they had been lucky, or had friends in the right places, or knew how to sell themselves.

As far as he was concerned, no one had more to offer than Lognon.

‘Where did you dig him up?’

‘Gare du Nord.’

‘When?’

‘This morning, at six thirty. It was still dark.’

‘You know his name?’

‘I’ve known it for ages. This is the eighth time I’ve arrested him. We generally use his first name, Philippe. He’s called Philippe Montemart, and his father is a professor at Nancy University.’

It was surprising hearing Lognon vouchsafing this much information in one go. His shoes were muddy and old and must have let in water; his trouser bottoms were soaked up to the knee; his eyes were tired and red-rimmed.

‘You knew it was him the moment the concierge mentioned a young man with long hair?’

‘I know this neighbourhood.

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