Georges Simenon - Maigrets Revolver

Georges Simenon

Maigrets Revolver

A book in the Inspector Maigret series

1956

Someone has broken into Maigret's home and stolen his special presentation award revolver. The macabre discovery of a corpse in a trunk leads him to believe hat his stolen gun is being used as a vengence weapon. The clues point towards London and the chase is on!

W hen, later on, Maigret thought about that case, it would always be as of something a little abnormal, linked in his mind with those illnesses that dont break out openly, but begin with vague aches and pains, symptoms too mild to claim ones attention.

There was, to start with, no complaint to the Police Judiciaire, no emergency call, no anonymous information, but, to go as far back as possible, a banal telephone call from Mme Maigret.

The black marble clock on the office mantelpiece had stood at twenty to twelve; he saw again distinctly the angle of the hands on its face. The window had been wide open, for it was June, and, beneath the hot sun, Paris had taken on its summer smell.

That you?

His wife had recognized his voice, obviously, but she still asked if it really was he speaking, not in doubt, but merely because she had always been awkward on the telephone. On Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, too, the windows must have been open. Mme Maigret at that hour would have finished the bulk of her housework. It was unusual for her to call him.

Its me.

I wanted to ask if you expect to be back for lunch.

It was even more unusual for her to telephone to ask him that question. He had frowned, not worried, but in surprise.

Why?

Oh, nothing. Or, rather, theres someone here waiting to see you.

Who?

No one you know. Its nothing. Only, if you werent coming back, I wasnt going to make him wait. A man?

A young man.

She had probably taken him into the living room, where they scarcely ever set foot. The telephone was in the dining room, which they normally used, and where they entertained their friends. It was there that Maigret had his pipes, his armchair, Mme Maigret her sewing machine. From the embarrassed way she spoke, he realized that she hadnt dared to close the door between the two rooms.

Who is it?

I dont know.

What does he want?

I dont know that either. Its personal.

He had attached no importance to the matter. If he did anything about it, it was only because his wife was uncomfortable, and also because she seemed to have taken the visitor under her protection.

I expect to leave the office about noon, he said finally.

He had only one more person to see, a woman who had already been to see him three or four times about threatening letters some neighbor was sending her. He rang for the porter.

Show her in.

He lighted his pipe, and leaned back in his chair, resigned.

Well, Madame, youve had another letter?

Two, Superintendent. Ive brought them with me. In one of them, as youll see, she admits it was she who poisoned my cat, and declares that if I dont move, it will soon be my turn

The hands crept slowly around the face of the clock. He had to make a show of taking the matter seriously. It lasted for a little under a quarter of an hour. Then, just as he was going to get his hat from the closet, there was a knock at the door.

You busy?

You! What are you doing in Paris?

It was Lourtie, once one of his inspectors, who had been assigned to the flying squad in Nice.

Just on my way through. I felt like taking a look at the old place again and saying hello to you. Do we have time to drink a pastis at the Brasserie Dauphinc?

A quick one.

He was fond of Lourtie, a big-boned, strapping fellow with a voice like a choir leaders. In the brasserie, where they stood at the bar, there were several other inspectors. They spoke of this and that. The taste of the pastis was exactly what was needed for a day like that. They drank one, then a second, a third.

Its time I was getting along. Im expected at home.

Can I walk partway with you?

They had crossed the Pont-Neuf together, Lourtie and he, then walked as far as Rue de Rivoli, where it had taken Maigret a good five minutes to find a taxi. It had been ten of one when he at last climbed the three flights on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, and, as usual, the door of his apartment opened before he had time to take the key from his pocket.

Right away he had noticed his wifes uneasy manner. Speaking low, because of the open doors, he had asked:

Hes still waiting?

Hes gone.

You dont know what he wanted?

He didnt tell me.

But for something in Mme Maigrets manner, he would have shrugged his shoulders and muttered:

Good riddance!

But instead of going into the kitchen and serving lunch, she followed him into the dining room with the air of someone who has excuses to make.

Did you go into the living room this morning? she finally asked.

Me? No. Why?

Why in fact should he have gone into the living room, which he loathed, before going to the office?

It seemed all right to me.

Well?

Nothing. I was trying to remember. I looked in the drawer.

What drawer?

The one where you keep your revolver from America.

Only then had he begun to suspect the truth. When he had spent several weeks in the United States at the invitation of the FBI, there had been a great deal of talk about weapons. The Americans had presented him, on his departure, with a revolver of which they were very proud, a Smith & Wesson.45 Special, with short barrel and highly sensitive trigger mechanism. His name had been engraved on it.

To J.-J. Maigret

from his FBI friends

He had never used it. But only the day before, he had taken it out of its drawer to show to a friend, or, rather, a colleague, whom he had asked in for a liqueur after dinner.

Why J.-J. Maigret?

He had asked the same question himself when he had been presented with the gun at a cocktail party in his honor. The Americans, who seemed normally to have two Christian names, had found out his. The first two, luckily: Jules-Joseph. In fact, there was a third: Anthelme.

You mean my revolver has disappeared?

Im just going to explain.

Before letting her speak, he went into the living room, which still smelled of cigarette smoke, and glanced at the mantelpiece, where he remembered having put the gun the evening before. It was no longer there. Yet he was sure he had not put it away in its place.

Whos responsible for this?

Sit down, first of all. Let me give you your meal, or the roast will be overdone. Dont be mad.

He was.

I think its a bit much when you let a stranger make his way in here and

She left the room, came back with a plate.

If you had seen him

What age?

Quite a young man. Nineteen? Twenty perhaps?

What did he want?

He rang the bell. I was in the kitchen. I thought it was the gas man. I went and opened the door. He asked me if this was where Superintendent Maigret lived. I gathered, from his manner, that he mistook me for the maid. He was nervous, frightened-looking.

And you showed him into the living room?

Because he told me he simply had to see you to ask your advice. My advice was to go and see you at your office. It seems it was too private.

Maigret kept his peevish look, but began to feel like smiling. He pictured the panic-stricken young man, on whom Mme Maigret had at once taken pity.

What sort of young man?

A very nice boy. I dont know how to put it. Not very well off, but from a good family. Im sure hed been crying. He took some cigarettes from his pocket and then immediately apologized. So I told him: You can smoke. Im used to it. Then I promised to telephone you to make sure youd be coming back.