Maigret's Dead Man Read Free

following him but he couldn’t point him out in the crowd. The
officer decided to make a note of it in his report, just in case.’
    â€˜I want you to go to Place des Vosges.
There’s a tobacconist’s on the corner of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois.’
    â€˜Got it …’
    A shortish man, waves his
arms about, wears a beige raincoat and a grey hat
. That was the sum total of all that was
known about him. There was nothing else to do now but stand by the window and watch the crowds
stream out of offices and invade the bars, the pavement cafés and the restaurants. Paris
was all light and life. As always happens, more pleasure was taken around the middle of February
in the first gusts of spring than when spring finally arrived. And the newspapers would
doubtless soon be talking of the famous chestnut tree on Boulevard Saint-Germain, which would be
in flower a month from now.
    Maigret phoned down to the Brasserie
Dauphine.
    â€˜Hello? … Joseph? … Maigret
… Can you bring me up a couple of beers and some sandwiches? … That’s right,
for one …’
    Before the sandwiches arrived, the phone rang. He
recognized the voice at once: he had told the switchboard to put these calls through
immediately, without wasting a moment.
    â€˜Hello? This time I think I’ve well
and truly given him the slip …’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    â€˜Nine’s husband. But that’s not
important. There are at least four of them, not counting the woman … Someone absolutely
must come at once and …’
    This time, he hadn’t had time to say where
he was phoning from. Maigret called the woman at the exchange. It took a few minutes. The call
had come from the Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle, a restaurant on Boulevard Beaumarchais, at no
distance from the Bastille.
    This location wasn’t
very far from Place des Vosges either. It was possible to track the meanderings of the shortish
man in a raincoat within, or almost, the same neighbourhood of Paris.
    â€˜Hello? Is that you Janvier? … I
thought you might still be there …’
    Maigret was phoning him at the bar in Place des
Vosges.
    â€˜Go to the Quatre Sergents de la
Rochelle
…
Yes … Keep the taxi …’
    An hour went by without a single phone call,
without anything more being learned about Nine’s husband. When the phone did ring, it
wasn’t him at the other end of the line but a café waiter.
    â€˜Hello? Am I speaking to Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret? … Inspector Maigret in person? … I am the waiter at the Café
de Birague in Rue de Birague. I’m speaking on behalf of a customer who asked me to call
you.’
    â€˜How long ago was this?’
    â€˜Maybe a quarter of an hour. I was supposed
to phone straight away but it’s our busy time.’
    â€˜A shortish man, wearing a
raincoat?’
    â€˜Yes. Right. I was afraid it was some sort
of practical joke. He was in a terrible hurry. He kept looking out into the street … Wait,
I want to get this right … As I remember, in his own words, he said to tell you that
he’d try to lead the man to the Canon de la Bastille. Do you know it? It’s the
brasserie on the corner of Boulevard Henri IV. He wanted you to send somebody pronto …
Wait, that’s not all. I expect you’ll understand. He said, and these are hisexact words: “It’s a different man. Now it’s the tall one
with red hair, he’s the worst.”’
    Maigret went there himself. He got into a taxi,
which took less than ten minutes to reach Place de la Bastille. The brasserie was a great barn
of a place and quiet. Its customers were mostly regulars who ordered the dish of the day or a
plate of charcuterie. He looked round for a man in a raincoat, then toured the coat racks hoping
to spot a beige raincoat.
    â€˜Tell me, waiter …’
    There were six waiters plus the woman at the till
and the