Georges Simenon - Maigret and the Bum (Maigret Mystery Series)

Georges Simenon

Maigret and the Dosser

(Maigret and the bum)

A book in the Inspector Maigret series

1973

A homeless man is found beaten and unconscious along the banks of the Seine. Inspector Maigret must connect him to a pastand a possible motive for for his attempted murder. The investigation provides Maigret with a chilling look at those who have rejected society and the small measure of justice it offers them.

F or a moment, somewhere between the Quai des Orfvres and the Pont Marie, Maigret halted, so briefly that Lapoint, who was walking beside him, did not notice. And yet, during the space of a few seconds, perhaps for less than a second, the Superintendent had become a young man again, no older than his companion.

It was probably due to the quality of the air, the brightness, the smell, the taste of it. There had been a morning just like this, other mornings like it, when as a young detective newly appointed to the Police Judiciaire, which Parisians still called the Sret, Maigret had belonged to the Public Highways Squad and had walked the streets of Paris from morning till night.

Although this was the 25th of March, today was the first real Spring day, specially clear after a last heavy shower that had fallen during the night, accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder. For the first time that year, too, Maigret had left his overcoat hanging in the cupboard of his office, and from time to time the breeze blew open his unbuttoned jacket.

Because of that breath from the past, he had unconsciously begun to walk at his old pace, neither fast nor slow, not exactly the pace of an idler pausing to watch trivial incidents in the street, nor yet that of a man making for a definite goal.

His hands clasped behind his back, he looked about him, to right and left and into the air, mentally recording visual images to which he had long ceased to pay attention.

For so short a journey, there had been no point in taking one of the black cars lined up in the courtyard of Police Headquarters, and the two men walked along the embankment. As they crossed the square in front of Notre-Dame, a flight of pigeons took off; a big yellow coach, come from Cologne, had already brought the first party of tourists.

Crossing the iron footbridge, they had reached the Ile Saint-Louis, and at one of the windows Maigret had noticed a young housemaid in uniform and muslin cap, looking like a character out of a Boulevard comedy. A butchers boy, also in uniform, was delivering meat a little farther on; a postman was leaving a block of flats.

Buds had burst open that very morning, and the trees were speckled with pale green.

The Seines still high, observed Lapointe, who had not spoken until now.

It was true. For the past month the rain had barely stopped for more than a few hours at a time and almost every evening the television showed rivers in spate, towns and villages with water pouring through their streets. The Seine was a yellowish flood, carrying along refuse, broken boxes, branches of trees.

The two men walked along the Quai de Bourbon as far as the Pont Marie, and as they crossed the bridge at the same leisurely pace, they could see downstream a greyish-coloured barge with the red and white triangle of the Compagnie Gnrale painted on her bow. Her name was Le Poitou, and a crane, whose grunting and creaking mingled with the confused noises of the city, was unloading the sand with which her holds were full.

Another barge was moored above the bridge, some fifty yards upstream from the first. She was cleaner looking, as if she had been polished that very morning, and a Belgian flag was fluttering lazily over her stern, while, close to the white cabin, a baby lay asleep cradled in a canvas hammock, and a very tall man with pale blond hair was looking out expectantly towards the river bank.

The boats name, in gilt letters, was De Zwarte Zwaan, a Flemish name which meant nothing to either Maigret or Lapointe.

It was two or three minutes to ten. The policemen reached the Quai des Clestins, and as they were about to go down the ramp towards the port a car stopped and three men got out, slamming the door behind them.

Hullo! Thats well timed

They had come from the Palais de Justice too, but from the more imposing part of it reserved for magistrates. There was Parrain, the Deputy Public Prosecutor, Dantziger the examining magistrate, and an old clerk of the court whose name Maigret could never remember, although he had met him hundreds of times.

Passers-by on their way to work, children playing on the pavement opposite did not suspect that a police investigation was under way. In the clear morning light, there was nothing impressive about it. The Deputy Public Prosecutor pulled a gold cigarette case from his pocket and automatically offered it to Maigret, who had his pipe in his mouth.

Of courseI was forgetting

He was tall and slender, fair-haired and distinguished-looking, and the Superintendent reflected, not for the first time, that this was typical of the Public Prosecutors department. Dantziger, the examining magistrate, was short and tubby and casually dressed. There were all sorts of examining magistrates. Why were the Parquet people always as elegant, as polite and often as haughty, as the private secretaries of Cabinet Ministers?

Shall we go, messieurs?

They went down the unevenly paved ramp as far as the waters edge, not far from the barge.

Is that the one?

Maigret knew no more about it than his companions. He had read the brief newspaper reports of what had happened during the night, and a telephone call half an hour previously had asked him to be present at the Parquets investigation.

He was quite glad to do so. He was back among people and in an atmosphere with which he was not unfamiliar. The five men walked together towards the motor-barge, while the tall blond bargee set out to meet them along the plank that connected it with the bank.

Take my hand, he said to the Deputy Public Prosecutor, who was walking in front. Itll be safer, nest-ce pas?

He had a pronounced Flemish accent. His strongly marked features, his pale eyes, his long arms and his way of moving recalled those Belgian racing cyclists whom one sees being interviewed after an event.

The noise of the crane unloading sand could be heard even more loudly here.

Your name is Josef Van Houtte? Maigret asked, after glancing at a piece of paper.

Jef Van Houtte, yes, monsieur.

Are you the owner of this boat?

Of course Im the owner of it, monsieur, who else could be?

A good smell of cooking rose from the cabin, and at the foot of the stairs, which were covered with floral-patterned linoleum, a very young woman could be seen coming and going.

Maigret pointed to the baby lying in its cradle.

Is that your son?

Thats not a son, monsieur, thats a daughter. Yolande, her name is. My sisters called Yolande too, and shes its godmother

Parrain, the Deputy Public Prosecutor, felt impelled to intervene, after motioning to the clerk to take notes.

Tell us what happened.

Well! I fished him out and the chap on the other boat helped me

He pointed to the Poitou, at the stern of which a man, leaning against the tiller, was looking at them as if waiting for his turn.

A tug hooted repeatedly and sailed slowly past, going upstream with four barges behind it. Each time one of them drew level with the Zwarte Zwaan, Jef Van Houtte raised his right arm in greeting.

Did you know the drowned man?