Maigret's Dead Man

Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in
Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the
latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight
short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.

Simenon always resisted identifying himself with
his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important
characteristic:

My motto, to the extent that I have one, has
been noted often enough, and I've always conformed to it. It's the one I've
given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points …‘understand and judge
not'.

Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret
novels.

‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of
Chekhov'

– William Faulkner

‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously
readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates'

– Muriel Spark

‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure
touch, the bleakness of human life'

– A. N. Wilson

‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth
century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked
by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories'

–
Guardian

‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if
he were part of it'

– Peter Ackroyd

‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we
have had in literature'

– André Gide

‘Superb … The most addictive of writers
… A unique teller of tales'

–
Observer

‘The mysteries of the human personality are
revealed in all their disconcerting complexity'

– Anita Brookner

‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist,
combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal'

– P. D. James

‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable
vividness'

–
Independent

‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant'

– John Gray

‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth
century'

– John Banville

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Praise for Georges Simenon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

EXTRA: Chapter 1 from
Maigret's First Case

‘Let me stop you there, madame
…'

After minutes of patient effort, Maigret finally
managed to interrupt his visitor's flow.

‘You are now telling me that your daughter
is slowly poisoning you …'

‘It's true …'

‘But a moment ago, you said, no less
categorically, that it was your son-in-law who deliberately lay in wait in the corridor for the
chambermaid to pass so that he could slip poison into either your coffee or one of your many
varieties of herbal tea …'

‘Quite true …'

‘Even so …' – he
consulted, or pretended to consult, the notes he had taken of this interview, which had been
going on for more than an hour – ‘when you began, you told me that your daughter and
her husband hate each other …'

‘That is also true, inspector.'

‘But they are agreed that they want to do
away with you?'

‘No, not at all! Don't you see, they
are both trying to poison me
separately
?'

‘What about your niece, Rita?'

‘Also separately …'

It was February. The weather was mild and sunny
with
the occasional cloud plump with showers which brought sudden rains down
out of the sky. But three times since his visitor had been in his office, Maigret had poked his
stove, the last remaining stove in the Police Judiciaire building, which he had had to fight so
hard to keep when central heating had been installed throughout Quai des Orfèvres.

The woman was probably roasting in her mink coat,
under the silk of her black dress, under the accumulation of jewels which decorated her all over
– ears, throat, wrists and bosom – making her look like a gypsy. And it was also of
a gypsy that she made you think, not of a grand lady, with her violent make-up which had formed
into a crust and was now beginning to run.

‘So that makes three people in all who are
intending to poison you.'

‘Not intending … They've
already started …'

‘And you claim that they're all
acting independently of each other …'

‘I'm not claiming anything, I am sure
of it.'

She spoke with the same Romanian accent as a
famous Boulevard actress and with the same sudden passionate outbursts which set her
quivering.

‘I am not mad … Read this … I
assume you've heard of Professor Touchard? … He's the one they always call as
an expert witness in all the important trials …'

She had thought of everything. She had even
consulted the most famous psychiatrist in Paris and requested him to supply a document
certifying that she was in her right mind!

There was nothing he could do
but listen to her patiently and, to keep her happy, jot down a few notes from time to time on
his pad. She had arranged her visit through a government minister who had personally phoned the
commissioner of the Police Judiciaire. Her husband, who had died a few weeks earlier, had been a
councillor of state. She lived in Rue de Presbourg in one of those enormous stone-built mansions
which front Place de l'Étoile.

‘As for my son-in-law, this is how he
carries on … I've looked carefully into it … I've been watching him for
months …'

‘So he began when your husband was still
alive?'

She handed him a plan, which she had drawn with
great care, of the first floor of the house.

‘My bedroom is marked A … B is the
bedroom of my daughter and her husband … But for some time Gaston has not been sleeping in
that room …'

The phone – at last! – which offered
Maigret a moment's respite.

‘Hello? … Who is on the line?
…'

Normally the officer on the police switchboard
did not put through any but the most urgent calls.

‘I'm sorry, sir … It's a
man. He won't give his name but is very insistent. Says he must absolutely talk to you
… He swears it's a matter of life and death …'

‘And he wants to speak to me
personally?'

‘Yes … Shall I put him
through?'

Maigret heard a voice saying anxiously:

‘Hello? … Is that you?
…'

‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, yes
…'

‘I'm sorry about
this … My name wouldn't mean anything to you … You don't know me, but
you used to know my wife, Nine … Hello? … I've got to tell you it all very
quickly because any time now something might happen that …'

Maigret's first reaction was to think:
‘Oh God, not another lunatic! It must be the day for them …'

He had observed that lunatics came in waves, as
if they were affected by the phases of the moon. He made a mental note that later he would
consult a calendar.

‘My first thought was to come and see you
… I walked past Quai des Orfèvres but didn't dare go in because he was right
behind me … I think he would have had no hesitation in shooting me …'

‘Who are you talking about?'

‘Hang on. I'm quite close. Just
across from your office. A minute ago I could see your window. Quai des Grands-Augustins.
There's a small bar, you'll know it, it's called Aux Caves du Beaujolais.
I'm calling from the phone booth there … Hello? … Can you hear me?
…'

It was 11.30 in the morning, and Maigret
automatically jotted the time down in his notepad, then the name of the bar …

‘I've thought of every conceivable
solution … I approached a policeman on Place du Châtelet …'

‘When?'

‘Half an hour ago. One of the men was very
close. It was the small, dark one. There are several of them, they work in relays. I'm not
sure if I could recognize them all. But I know the small dark man is one of them
…'

Then silence.

‘Hello?' said Maigret.

The silence continued for several moments, then
the voice came again:

‘Sorry. I heard someone coming into the bar
and thought it was him. I opened the door an inch but it was only a delivery man … Hello?
…'

‘What did you say to the
policeman?'

‘That some men had been following me since
last night … No, actually since yesterday afternoon … And that they must be waiting
for an opportunity to kill me … I asked him to arrest the one who was standing behind me
…'

‘And he refused?'

‘He asked me to point the man out, and when
I turned round to do so I couldn't see him. So he didn't believe me. I made the most
of the opportunity and ran down into the Métro. I jumped on the first train and then jumped
off it again just before the doors closed, as it was about to leave. I walked along all the
passages. I came out opposite the department store, Bazar de l'Hôtel-de-Ville and
walked through all the shops too …'

He must have been walking very briskly, even
running, because his breathing was still rapid and wheezy.

‘What I'm asking is for you to send a
plainclothes officer to me right away. Here, in the Caves du Beaujolais. He mustn't speak
to me. He must act all casual. I'll leave. I'm pretty sure the man tailing me will
follow. He can then be arrested, and I'll come to see you and explain everything
…'

‘Hello?'

‘I said I …'

Then nothing. Confused sounds.

‘Hello? … Hello? …'

But there was no one at the other end of the
line.

When she saw Maigret hang up, the old woman who
was being poisoned resumed imperturbably: ‘As I was saying …'

‘Excuse me for a moment, would
you?'

He went to the door which communicated with the
office occupied by the inspectors.

‘Janvier, put your hat on and run over to
Quai des Grands-Augustins. There's a small bar there, Aux Caves du Beaujolais it's
called. Ask if the man who just used the phone is still there.'

He lifted the receiver of his phone.

‘Get me the Caves du Beaujolais
…'

As he did so, he looked out of the window. On the
opposite bank of the Seine, where Quai des Grands-Augustins rises to the level of Pont
Saint-Michel, he had a clear view of the narrow front of a bar which catered mostly for
regulars. He had occasionally stopped there to drink a beer at the counter. He remembered that
there was a step down to go in, that it was cool inside and that the landlord always wore a
cellar man's black apron.

A lorry parked outside the bar blocked his view
of the door. Pedestrians passed by on the pavement.

‘You see, inspector …'

‘One moment, madame,
please …'

Still looking out, he very carefully filled his
pipe.

This old woman, with her tales of poison, would
waste his entire morning for him, if not more. She had brought with her reams of paper, plans,
certificates, even analyses of various kinds of foodstuffs which she must have ordered from her
own pharmacist.

‘I've always been a mistrustful sort
of person, you know …'

She gave off a powerful, nauseating perfume which
had invaded the office and had managed to get the better of the wholesome smell of pipe
smoke.

‘Hello? … Haven't you got that
number I asked you for yet?'

‘I'm calling it, sir. I haven't
stopped calling it. The number is constantly engaged. Unless someone forgot to put the receiver
back on the hook …'

Moments later, Janvier, not wearing a jacket,
crossed the bridge in an ungainly lope and went into the bar. The lorry decided to drive off,
but Maigret still could not see inside the bar as it was too dark. A few more moments elapsed,
then the phone rang …

‘There, sir. I've got that number for
you. It's ringing now.'

‘Hello? … Who is this? Is that you,
Janvier? … The phone was off the hook? … Well?'

‘Yes, there was a shortish man here phoning
…'

‘Did you see him?'

‘No. He'd gone by the time I got
here. Apparently he
kept looking out through the window of the booth and
opening the door …'

‘Anything else?'

‘A customer walked in, and the first thing
he did was look towards the phone booth. Then he ordered a brandy at the counter. As soon as the
man in the booth saw him, he broke off his conversation.'

‘Did both of them leave?'

‘Yes, one behind the other.'

‘Try to get the landlord to give you as
detailed a description as possible of both men … Hello? And while you're at it come
back via Place du Châtelet. Question all the officers on duty. Try and find out if one of
them, about three-quarters of an hour ago, was approached by the same shortish man who asked him
to arrest someone who was following him.'

When he hung up, the old woman looked at him with
satisfaction and evident approval, as though she were about to award him a very good mark:

‘Now that's exactly how I understand
policemen operate. You don't waste any time. You think of everything.'

He sat down again with a sigh. He had been about
to open the window because he was beginning to suffocate in his overheated office, but he did
not want to miss any opportunity of cutting short the visit of this woman who had been
recommended by the minister.

Aubain-Vasconcelos. That was her name. It would
remain engraved on his memory, even if he never saw her again. Did she die in the days
immediately following? Probably not. He would have heard about it. Perhaps she
had been locked away? Perhaps she had felt let down by the official police and had instead
turned to a private detective agency? Or perhaps she had woken up next morning with some other
fixation?

Be that as it may, he was stuck there for another
hour listening to her talking about all the people in that vast mansion in Rue de Presbourg
– where life could not have been much fun – who were feeding her poison at all hours
of the day.

At noon he was at long last able to open his
window. Then, pipe between his teeth, he walked into the commissioner's office.

‘Did you get rid of her gently?'

‘As gently as could be.'

‘I gather that in her day she was one of
the most beautiful women in Europe. I knew her husband slightly, the mildest, dullest, most
boring man imaginable. Are you going out, Maigret?'

He hesitated. The streets were beginning to smell
of spring. Tables and chairs had been brought out on to the terrace of the Brasserie Dauphine
and the commissioner's question was an invitation to stroll down for a pre-prandial
drink.

‘I think I'd better stay here. I got
a very odd phone call this morning.'

He was about to explain when the phone rang. The
commissioner answered then passed him the receiver.

‘It's for you.'

Maigret recognized the voice immediately. It
sounded even more frightened than before.