The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin: Inspector Maigret #10 by Simenon Georges

Author:Simenon, Georges [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Crime
ISBN: 9780698183032
Goodreads: 28227442
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 1931-04-01T08:00:00+00:00

7. The Unusual Journey

‘The journalists won’t be able to come in here, will they? Would you lock the door? Better if we can talk undisturbed.’

Chief Inspector Delvigne looked at his colleague with the involuntary respect that is accorded, whether in the French provinces, or even more in Belgium, to anything Parisian. He was also embarrassed by his blunder, and started to apologize.

‘Not at all,’ said Maigret firmly. ‘I absolutely wanted to be arrested! And I’ll go further: in a little while, you’re going to take me to prison, and I’ll stay there as long as need be. Your own inspectors must believe that I really have been arrested.’

He couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing at the sight of his Belgian colleague’s face. Delvigne was looking askance at Maigret, wondering what attitude to adopt. It was clear that he was afraid of appearing ridiculous. And he was trying in vain to guess whether his companion was joking or not.

Maigret’s laughter prompted his own.

‘Come off it! You’re having me on! Put you in prison? Ha, ha, that’s a good one!’

‘I promise you, I insist on it.’

‘Ha, ha!’

Delvigne resisted for a long time. And when he realized that his interlocutor was quite serious, he was devastated.

They were sitting face to face now, looking at each other across a table laden with files. From time to time, Maigret stole an admiring glance at his colleague’s meerschaum pipe.

‘You’ll soon understand why,’ he said. ‘My apologies for not putting you in the picture earlier, but you’ll see in a minute that it wasn’t possible. The crime was committed on Wednesday, wasn’t it? Right. Well on Monday, I was in my office, Quai des Orfèvres in Paris, when I was handed the business card of a certain Graphopoulos. As usual, before seeing him, I phoned the immigration office to find out who he was. They didn’t have anything on him. Graphopoulos had only just arrived in Paris. In my office, he gave me the impression of a man who was extremely anxious. He explained that he travelled a good deal, that he had reason to believe that his life was in danger, and he asked how much it would cost to be guarded day and night by a police inspector.

‘We often get these requests, so I quoted him a rate. He insisted that he needed someone of senior rank, but on the other hand he replied evasively to my question about the kind of danger he was in, and who his potential enemies might be. He gave his address as the Grand Hôtel, and that evening, I sent round the inspector he had asked for. Next day, I found out more about him. The Greek embassy told me that he was the son of a wealthy banker in Athens, and that he travelled all over Europe living like a playboy. I expect you took him for a run-of-the-mill chancer.’

‘Yes, we did. Are you sure that—?’

‘Wait. On Tuesday evening, the inspector sent to protect Graphopoulos told me with the utmost concern that our man had spent all his time trying to lose him.

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