Maigret's Dead Man Read Free Page A

man who owned the place. He questioned them all. No one had seen his man. So he took a
seat in a corner by the door, ordered a beer and waited, smoking his pipe. Half an hour later,
sandwiches notwithstanding, he ordered a plate of sauerkraut and frankfurters. He watched people
pass by on the pavement. Every time a raincoat appeared, he gave a start, and there were many of
them, for the shower now falling was the third since that morning. The rain was translucent,
transparent, the plain, innocent kind of rain which does not prevent the sun from shining.
    â€˜Hello? … Police Judiciaire? …
It’s Maigret. Has Janvier got back? Let me speak to him … Is that you, Janvier?
… Jump in a taxi and meet me in theCanon de la Bastille …
You’re right, today’s the day for bars. I’ll wait for you here … No,
nothing new …’
    Too bad if the man with the windmill arms was a
hoaxer. Maigret left his inspector to keep an eye on the Canon de la Bastille and used the taxi
to go back to his office.
    The chances that Nine’s husband had been
murdered since half past twelve were slim, because he did not seem keen to venture down
backstreets. On the contrary, he chose busy parts of town and main thoroughfares. Even so,
Maigret contacted the emergency services, which kept constantly up to date about any trouble
that happened in Paris.
    â€˜If you are informed that a man in a
raincoat has had an accident or been involved in an argument or whatever, give me a ring
…’
    He also gave instructions for one of the Police
Judiciaire’s squad cars to be kept available for him in the courtyard of Quai des
Orfèvres. This was perhaps excessive, but he was merely stacking the odds on his side.
    He talked to people who came to his office,
smoked many pipes and stoked his stove from time to time, while keeping his window open, and
occasionally aimed a reproachful look at his phone, which remained resolutely silent.
    â€˜You used to know my wife …’
the man had said.
    He tried idly to remember a Nine. He must have
met many of that name. He had known one, a few years before, who ran a small bar in Cannes, but
she had been an old lady even then and was probably dead by now. There was also a niece of his
wife’s whose name was Aline, but everybody called her Nine.
    â€˜Hello? Detective Chief Inspector
Maigret?’
    It was four o’clock. It was still broad
daylight but theinspector had switched on his desk lamp with the green
shade.
    â€˜I am the postmaster at 28, Rue du Faubourg
Saint-Denis. I’m sorry to bother you. It’s probably some sort of hoax. A few minutes
ago a customer approached the counter that deals with registered parcels … Hello? …
The counter-clerk, Mademoiselle Denfer, told me that he seemed to be in a great hurry. He kept
turning round. He pushed a piece of paper under her nose. He said: “Don’t try to
understand. Phone this message through to Inspector Maigret at once.” Then he vanished
into the crowd.
    â€˜The member of staff concerned reported
this to me. I have the piece of paper in front of me. It’s written in pencil, a terrible
scrawl. Looks like the man wrote the note while he was walking along.
    â€˜This is what it says: “I
couldn’t make it to the Canon”. Does that mean anything to you? It’s
meaningless to me. But no matter. Then there’s a word I can’t read. “Now
there’s two of them. The small dark one has come back.” It’s the word
“dark” I’m not sure of … Say again? … Fair enough, if that’s
what you think it says … There’s more: “I’m sure they’ve decided
to get me today. I’m not far from the Quai. But they’re cunning. Warn your officers
to be on their guard.”
    â€˜That’s it. If you want, I’ll
send the note by telegram messenger … By taxi? Most certainly. Provided