Maigret's Dead Man by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

of an idea
… He would test it later …
    â€˜I don’t suppose you know a woman
named Nine either?’
    â€˜Wait a sec … There’s a Nine in
Marseilles, plays second fiddle to the madam of a brothel in Rue Saint-Ferréol.’
    â€˜It’s not her, I know that one
… She’s at least fifty years old …’
    Fred stared at the photo of the man who was
probably about thirty and muttered:
    â€˜It doesn’t always follow, you
know!’
    â€˜Take one of these photos. Try to remember.
Show it round …’
    â€˜You can count on me. I hope I’ll
have a lead for you within a couple of days. Not about your stiff, but about a big-time drugs
dealer. For now I only know him as Monsieur Jean. I’ve never seen him. All I know is that
he’s behind a big gang of small-fry dealers. I get my stuff from them regularly. It costs
me. When you’ve got some cash to spare …’
    Next door, Janvier was still on the trail of fish
pie.
    â€˜You’re right, sir. Everyone I talk
to says they only make Provençal fish pie on Fridays, and even then, not that often. During
Holy Week, sometimes on a Wednesday, but Easter is still a long way off.’
    â€˜Leave that to
Torrence. Is there anything on at the Vél’ d’Hiv’ this
afternoon?’
    â€˜Wait a minute, I’ll look in the
paper.’
    There were motor-paced races.
    â€˜Take a photo along with you. Talk to the
ticket offices, orange sellers and peanut vendors. Tour all the bars in the area. Then hang
about in the cafés around Porte Dauphine.’
    â€˜You think he was a sporting
type?’
    Maigret had no idea. He had a feeling too, just
like the others, like the landlord of the Caves du Beaujolais, like the informer Fred, but it
was unfocused, blurred.
    He could not picture his dead man working in an
office or as a shop assistant. Fred had been definite that he was not part of the criminal
underworld.
    On the other hand, he was completely at home in
small working-class bars.
    He had a wife called Nine. And Maigret had met
her. In what capacity? Would the man have made a point of mentioning it if the inspector had
encountered her as someone he had investigated?
    â€˜Come here, Dubonnet. I want you to go down
to Vice. Ask to see the list of girls who’ve been registered over the last few years. Note
down the addresses of all the ones named Nine. Then go and see them. Is that clear?’
    Dubonnet was a young officer, fresh out of
college, a little stiff, always very well turned out, exquisitely courteous to all and sundry.
It was perhaps Maigret’s sense of irony which had made him choose him for the job.
    He sent another inspector to make inquiries in
all the small bars around Châtelet, Place des Vosges and Bastille.
    Meanwhile, Coméliau, the
examining magistrate, who was leading the investigation from his office, waited impatiently for
Maigret. He did not understand why he had not already contacted him.
    â€˜What about the yellow
Citroëns?’
    â€˜Ã‰riau is looking after it.’
    All that was routine. But even if it served no
purpose, it had to be done. On all the roads in France, policemen and uniformed officers were
pulling over all drivers of yellow Citroëns.
    Someone also had to be sent to the shop on
Boulevard Sébastopol where the dead man’s jacket had been bought, and also to another
establishment on Boulevard Saint-Martin where the raincoat had been sold.
    While that was proceeding, fifty other cases were
demanding the attention of the inspectors. They came in, went out, phoned, typed up reports
… People were kept waiting in the corridors. There was a deal of toing and froing between
the Hotel Agency and Vice Squad and between Vice and Records.
    Moers’ voice over the phone:
    â€˜Maybe something, sir … A small
detail, which is probably not important. I’ve found so little that I’ll bring it to
your