Maigret Defends Himself by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241304075
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

‘Why does he put “specialist in oral medicine”?’

‘It sounds posher than “dentist”.’

He looked up at Manuel’s window and saw Aline leaning there, smoking a cigarette.

A few metres further on, a man standing on a corner murmured as Maigret and his wife passed:

‘Goodnight, sir.’

It was Jaquemain, one of his inspectors, who would be spending the night in the street.

‘Goodnight, old man.’

The couple took the Métro at Ternes. It had been a depressing day, but thanks to Madame Maigret it was drawing to a close in comparative serenity. On Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, a big rose-tinted moon looked down on them as they walked arm in arm towards their apartment.

A traffic accident delayed the bus in which he was travelling, and he didn’t get to Quai des Orfèvres until 9.10.

‘Has anyone asked for me?’

‘No, sir. Only Inspector Lourtie.’

‘I’ll see him after the briefing.’

He took the files that were on his desk and hurried to the commissioner’s office, where the other department heads were already gathered.

‘My apologies, commissioner.’

‘You were saying, Bernard?’

The head of the Gambling Squad went on with his report, in a monotonous voice.

‘Good … And what about you, Maigret? Another jewel raid yesterday …’

Maigret had expected a difficult session, furtive or reproving glances, but nothing of what had happened the previous day in the prefect’s office seemed to have filtered through.

The usual morning routine. The open windows. Birds singing. A tramp on the banks of the Seine, carefully washing his linen.

A quarter of an hour later, Barnacle, still dressed in black, slipped into Maigret’s office.

‘I have three,’ he announced, holding out some enlarged photographs, ‘but I don’t know which is the right one.’

He meant the right girl, in other words, Nicole Prieur. The first, a round-faced young woman with innocent eyes, looked nothing like her. The second was barely sixteen, which rather suggested that poor Barnacle’s knowledge of girls had remained rudimentary.

The third was indeed Nicole, wearing a light-coloured dress and carrying a white handbag under her arm.

‘I have another one of her, a full-length one.’

Like a conjurer, Barnacle produced it from a pocket of his loose-fitting jacket. The picture had been taken in front of the gates of the Parc Monceau. Nicole was holding on to a dog lead, at the other end of which a dachshund was busy doing its business.

‘Is this what you wanted?’

‘Perfect, Barnacle.’

‘Would you like more copies?’

‘If possible, yes. Three or four.’

It didn’t matter so much now. Without Oscar, Lucas’ – or rather, Madame Lucas’ – distant relative, these photographs would have played a greater role. They might still play one, although Maigret already thought he had a lead.

‘Do you want me to print them right away?’

Maigret had rather forgotten that Barnacle had risked his job to take these photographs on the sly.

‘Was it difficult?’

‘Not as difficult as all that. Out in the street, you know, I’m not conspicuous, I blend into the background. In parks, you almost always find one or two men like me, and nobody pays attention to them any more.’

He spoke of himself without bitterness or irony.

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