Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon Page B

arrested sooner or later. What was the point of pursuing him like this, of
inflicting such pointless cruelty? He was reacting the way the uninitiated do when a hunt passes
by.
    Paying no attention to
Lucas, the stranger had asked for a phone token and shut himself away in the booth. Through the
windows of the café, Lucas could be seen making the most of the enforced halt to sink a
large glass of beer. The sight made Maigret feel thirsty.
    The phone call was a long one: almost five
minutes. Two or three times, Lucas became concerned. He went to the door of the phone booth and
looked through the spy-hole to make sure that nothing had happened to his man.
    Afterwards, they stood side by side at the
counter, without speaking, as if they had never seen each other before. The man’s
expression had changed. He looked around him apprehensively and seemed to be watching for the
right moment, though he had probably realized that there would be no more right moments for
him.
    After some time, he paid and left. He headed off
towards Place de la Bastille, completed almost a full circuit of the square, walked briefly
along Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, just a few minutes from Maigret’s apartment, but turned
right along Rue de la Roquette. It was not long before he was lost. It was patently obvious that
he did not know the area. Two or three more times he had thoughts about making a run for it. But
there were too many people about or perhaps he would catch sight of a policeman’s peaked
képi at the next junction.
    At this point, he began to drink. He went into
bars, not to phone, but to gulp down a glass of cheap cognac. Lucas had decided not to follow
him inside any more.
    In one of these bars, a man spoke to him. He
stared athim without answering, like a man who has been addressed in a
language he doesn’t understand.
    Maigret could now see why from the very start,
from the moment the man had walked into the Petit Albert, he had sensed that there was something
foreign about him. It wasn’t so much that the cut of his clothes or his cast of features
was not French. It was rather the cautious behaviour of someone who is not at home in his
surroundings, who does not understand and cannot make himself understood.
    There was sunshine in the streets. It was very
mild. Concierges in the Picpus district, like concierges in small provincial towns, had put a
chair outside their front door.
    What a merry dance they were led before they
reached Boulevard Voltaire and finally Place de la République, where the man finally
regained his bearings!
    He went down the steps into the Métro. Was
he still hoping to shake Lucas off? If he did, he must have realized that his stratagem would
not work, for Maigret saw the pair coming back up through the exit.
    Rue Réaumur … Another detour …
Rue de Turbigo … Then along Rue Chapon to Rue Beaubourg.
    â€˜This is his patch,’ thought
Maigret.
    It was palpable. Just from the way the stranger
looked about him, it was obvious he recognized every shop. He was at home. Perhaps he lived in
one of the many run-down hotels?
    He kept hesitating, stopping at street corners.
Something was preventing him doing what he wanted to do. In this way he progressed as far as Rue
de Rivoli, which marked the limit of that area of impoverished streets.
    He did not cross it. Going
along Rue des Archives, he went back into the ghetto and was soon walking along Rue des
Rosiers.
    â€˜He doesn’t want us to know where he
lives!’
    But why not? And whom had he phoned? Had he asked
one of his cronies for help? What could he expect from that quarter?
    â€˜I’m really sorry for the poor
devil,’ breathed the taxi-driver. ‘Are you sure he’s a crook?’
    No! Not even a petty crook! But there was no
choice but to follow him. It was his only chance of getting a new lead on Albert’s
murder.
    The man was sweating profusely. His nose was
running. From time to time he