My Friend Maigret Read Free

Toulon…”
    â€œA thug,” Maigret said simply to Mr. Pyke.
    Then it became more serious.
    â€œParis. Inveigling.”
    The Englishman asked:
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    Imagine having to explain that to a man who belongs to a race with the reputation of being the most tight-laced in the world!
    â€œIt’s a sort of theft, but a theft committed in special circumstances. When a gentleman accompanies an unknown lady to a more or less disreputable hotel and then goes and complains that his wallet has been stolen, it’s called inveigling. Nearly always the prostitute has an accomplice. You follow me?”
    â€œI understand.”
    There were three convictions for acting as accomplice to inveigling on Marcel Pacaud’s file, and on each occasion, there was a certain Ginette in the case.
    Then things became worse still, for there was an incident involving a knife wound which Pacaud was supposed to have inflicted on a recalcitrant gentleman.
    â€œThey’re what you call mauvais garçons , I believe?” Mr. Pyke insinuated gently; his French was terribly impregnated with nuances, so much so that it became ironical.
    â€œPrecisely. I wrote to him, I recall. I don’t know how you deal with them in your country.”
    â€œVery correctly.”
    â€œI don’t doubt it. Here we sometimes knock them around. We’re not always gentle with them. But the odd thing is that they seldom hold it against us. They know we’re only doing our job. From one interrogation to the next, we get to know each other.”
    â€œThis is the one who called himself a friend of yours?”
    â€œI’m convinced he was sincere. I particularly remember the girl and what I remember still better is the headed paper. If we have the chance I’ll show you the Brasserie des Ternes. It’s very comfortable and the sauerkraut is excellent. Do you like sauerkraut?”
    â€œOn occasion,” replied the Englishman, without enthusiasm.
    â€œEvery afternoon and evening there are a few women sitting round a table. It’s there that Ginette used to work. A Breton girl, who came from a village in the St. Malo area. She started off as a maid of all work with a local butcher. She adored Pacaud, and when he talked of her, tears would come into his eyes. Does that surprise you?”
    Nothing surprised Mr. Pyke, whose expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
    â€œI became rather interested in them, at one time. She was riddled with TB. She hadn’t wanted to have herself cured because that would have taken her away from her Marcel. When he was in prison, I persuaded her to go to see one of my friends, a specialist on consumption, and he got her into a sanatorium in Savoie. That’s all.”
    â€œThat’s what you wrote to Pacaud?”
    â€œThat’s right. Pacaud was at Fresnes and I hadn’t time to go there myself.”
    Maigret gave the file back to Langlois and started down the stairs.
    â€œHow about going to eat?”
    This was another problem, almost a case for his conscience. If he took Mr. Pyke for his meals into too luxurious restaurants he risked giving his colleagues from across the channel the impression that the French police spend most of their time junketing. If, on the other hand, he took him to places where only set meals are served, perhaps they would accuse him of stinginess.
    Same with apéritifs. To drink them or not to drink them?
    â€œAre you expecting to go to Porquerolles?”
    Did Mr. Pyke want to make a trip to the Midi?
    â€œIt’s not up to me to decide. In theory I don’t operate outside Paris and the department of the Seine.”
    The sky was gray, a lowering, hopeless gray, and even the word “mistral” took on a tempting allure.
    â€œDo you like tripe?”
    He took him to the Market, and made him eat tripes à la mode de Caen and crêpes Suzette, which were brought to them on attractive copper chafing