two loud siren blasts before disappearing under the Pont de la Cité.
At ten o’clock, Lucas came in, holding a
sheaf of papers, which he set down on a corner of the desk.
‘You’re in town, chief? I thought you
were back in Orsenne.’
‘Has there been a telephone call for me
this morning?’
‘Not yet. Are you expecting one?’
‘You need to inform the switchboard. Tell
them to put the call directly through to me, or, if I’m not here, to take a
message.’
He didn’t want to appear anxious, but he
smoked one pipe after another.
‘Carry on with your work as if I
weren’t here.’
‘Nothing exciting this morning. A stabbing
in Rue Delambre.’
The daily routine. He knew it so well. He had
removed his jacket, as in the old days when he was at home here. He wandered in and out of the
various offices, shook hands, caught snatches of an interrogation or a telephone
conversation.
‘Don’t mind me, boys.’
At half past eleven, he went down for a beer with
Torrence.
‘By the way, there’s something
I’d like you to find out for me. Still on the subject of Ernest Malik. I want to know if
he’s a gambler. Or if he was in the past, when he was young. It must be possible to find
someone who knew him twenty or twenty-five years ago.’
‘I will, chief.’
At a quarter to twelve, there was still nothing,
and Maigret’s shoulders grew more stooped, his gait more hesitant.
‘I think I’ve been a complete
idiot!’ he even said to Lucas, who was dealing with routine business.
Each time the telephone rang in the office, he
picked it up himself. At last, a few seconds before midday, someone was asking for Maigret.
‘Maigret speaking … Where are you?
… Where is he?’
‘In Ivry, boss. I’ll be quick,
because I’m worried he’ll take advantage. I don’t know the name of the street.
I didn’t get a chance to see it. A little hotel. It’s a three-storey building and
the ground floor is painted brown. It’s called A Ma Bourgogne. There’s a gas works
right opposite.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘I have no idea. I think he’s
sleeping. I’d better go.’
Maigret went and stood in front of a map of Paris
and the suburbs.
‘Do you know a gas works in Ivry,
Lucas?’
‘I think I get where it is, it’s just
past the station.’
A few minutes later, Maigret, sitting in an
open-topped taxi, was heading towards the smoke of Ivry. He had to comb the streets for a while
until he found a gas works and eventually spotted a seedy hotel whose ground floor was painted
dark brown.
‘Shall I wait for you?’ asked the
driver.
‘I think that would be a good
idea.’
Maigret walked into the restaurant area where
workers, nearly all foreigners, were eating at the marble tables. A
powerful smell of stew and cheap red wine assailed his throat. A
sturdy girl in black and white wove among the tables, carrying an impossible number of small,
grey ceramic dishes.
‘Are you looking for the fellow who came
down to telephone earlier? He said to tell you to go up to the third floor. You can go through
here.’
A narrow corridor, with graffiti on the walls.
The staircase was dark, lit only by a small window on the second floor. Once past it, Maigret
caught sight of two feet and a pair of legs.
It was Mimile, sitting on the top stair, an unlit
cigarette in his mouth.
‘Give me a light first, boss. I
didn’t even stop to ask for matches when I went downstairs to telephone. I haven’t
been able to have a smoke since last night.’
There was a mixture of joy and mockery in his
light-coloured eyes.
‘Do you want me to shove over so you can
sit down too?’
‘Where is he?’
On the landing Maigret was able to make out four
doors painted the same dreary brown as the façade. They bore the clumsily painted numbers
11, 12, 13 and 14.
‘He’s in number 12! I’ve got
13. It’s funny, anyone would think they’d done it on purpose … Thirteen,
unlucky for some!’
He inhaled the smoke avidly, stood up
At ten o’clock, Lucas came in, holding a
sheaf of papers, which he set down on a corner of the desk.
‘You’re in town, chief? I thought you
were back in Orsenne.’
‘Has there been a telephone call for me
this morning?’
‘Not yet. Are you expecting one?’
‘You need to inform the switchboard. Tell
them to put the call directly through to me, or, if I’m not here, to take a
message.’
He didn’t want to appear anxious, but he
smoked one pipe after another.
‘Carry on with your work as if I
weren’t here.’
‘Nothing exciting this morning. A stabbing
in Rue Delambre.’
The daily routine. He knew it so well. He had
removed his jacket, as in the old days when he was at home here. He wandered in and out of the
various offices, shook hands, caught snatches of an interrogation or a telephone
conversation.
‘Don’t mind me, boys.’
At half past eleven, he went down for a beer with
Torrence.
‘By the way, there’s something
I’d like you to find out for me. Still on the subject of Ernest Malik. I want to know if
he’s a gambler. Or if he was in the past, when he was young. It must be possible to find
someone who knew him twenty or twenty-five years ago.’
‘I will, chief.’
At a quarter to twelve, there was still nothing,
and Maigret’s shoulders grew more stooped, his gait more hesitant.
‘I think I’ve been a complete
idiot!’ he even said to Lucas, who was dealing with routine business.
Each time the telephone rang in the office, he
picked it up himself. At last, a few seconds before midday, someone was asking for Maigret.
‘Maigret speaking … Where are you?
… Where is he?’
‘In Ivry, boss. I’ll be quick,
because I’m worried he’ll take advantage. I don’t know the name of the street.
I didn’t get a chance to see it. A little hotel. It’s a three-storey building and
the ground floor is painted brown. It’s called A Ma Bourgogne. There’s a gas works
right opposite.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘I have no idea. I think he’s
sleeping. I’d better go.’
Maigret went and stood in front of a map of Paris
and the suburbs.
‘Do you know a gas works in Ivry,
Lucas?’
‘I think I get where it is, it’s just
past the station.’
A few minutes later, Maigret, sitting in an
open-topped taxi, was heading towards the smoke of Ivry. He had to comb the streets for a while
until he found a gas works and eventually spotted a seedy hotel whose ground floor was painted
dark brown.
‘Shall I wait for you?’ asked the
driver.
‘I think that would be a good
idea.’
Maigret walked into the restaurant area where
workers, nearly all foreigners, were eating at the marble tables. A
powerful smell of stew and cheap red wine assailed his throat. A
sturdy girl in black and white wove among the tables, carrying an impossible number of small,
grey ceramic dishes.
‘Are you looking for the fellow who came
down to telephone earlier? He said to tell you to go up to the third floor. You can go through
here.’
A narrow corridor, with graffiti on the walls.
The staircase was dark, lit only by a small window on the second floor. Once past it, Maigret
caught sight of two feet and a pair of legs.
It was Mimile, sitting on the top stair, an unlit
cigarette in his mouth.
‘Give me a light first, boss. I
didn’t even stop to ask for matches when I went downstairs to telephone. I haven’t
been able to have a smoke since last night.’
There was a mixture of joy and mockery in his
light-coloured eyes.
‘Do you want me to shove over so you can
sit down too?’
‘Where is he?’
On the landing Maigret was able to make out four
doors painted the same dreary brown as the façade. They bore the clumsily painted numbers
11, 12, 13 and 14.
‘He’s in number 12! I’ve got
13. It’s funny, anyone would think they’d done it on purpose … Thirteen,
unlucky for some!’
He inhaled the smoke avidly, stood up
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