Maigret by Georges Simenon

would get him one day, for sure. They had him in their sights. They
     had checked his alibi and the investigation would follow the proper course.
    But there was no need for
     overzealousness! And there was certainly no need for Maigret, with his habit of
     putting his foot in it.
    Maigret had reached the little paved
     courtyard where a morose crowd waited outside the juvenile court. Despite the
     sunshine, there was a chill in the air and in the shade there was still a dusting of
     frost between the flagstones.
    ‘That idiot Philippe!’
     grumbled Maigret almost sick with revulsion.
    For he was well aware that he was going
     round and round like a circus horse. There was no point waiting for a brainwave; in
     police matters, brainwaves were of no use. Nor was it a matter of discovering a
     phenomenal lead, or a clue that had eluded everyone else.
    It was simpler and more brutal. Cageot
     had killed Pepito, or had him killed. The challenge was to get Cageot finally to
     admit that this was the truth.
    Now Maigret was
     strolling along the riverbank, close to the laundry boat. He did not have the power
     to summon Cageot to an office and lock him in for a few hours, or to repeat the same
     question a hundred times, roughing him up if necessary to make him crack.
    Nor could he summon the café owner, the
     waiter or the men who played
belote
every night a hundred metres from the
     Floria.
    He had barely started using Fernande
     when she had literally been snatched away from him.
    He reached the Chope du Pont-Neuf,
     pushed open the glazed door and went over to shake hands with Lucas, who was sitting
     at the bar.
    ‘How are things, chief?’
    ‘Not good!’ replied
     Maigret.
    ‘It’s tough, isn’t
     it?’
    It wasn’t tough. It was a
     hopelessly tragic situation.
    ‘I’m getting old! Maybe
     it’s the effect of rural life.’
    ‘What are you drinking?’
    ‘I’ll have a
     Pernod!’
    He said that almost defiantly. He
     remembered that he had promised to write to his wife, but he hadn’t felt up to
     it.
    ‘Is there some way I can
     help?’
    Lucas was a curious character, always
     badly dressed, puny into the bargain, who had neither wife nor family. Maigret let
     his gaze rove around the place, which was beginning to fill up, and he had to crease
     his eyes when he turned to the window where the sun was streaming in.
    ‘Have you worked with
     Philippe?’
    ‘A couple of times.’
    ‘Was he very
     disagreeable?’
    ‘There are people who resent him
     because he doesn’t say much. He’s shy, you know. Have they banged him
     up?’
    ‘Cheers.’
    Lucas was concerned to see Maigret so
     tight-lipped.
    ‘What are you going to do,
     chief?’
    ‘I know I can trust you, so
     I’ll tell you. I’m going to do
everything
that’s
     necessary. Do you understand? It’s best that someone knows, so if anything
     were to happen—’
    He wiped his mouth on the back of his
     hand, and tapped a coin on the bar to attract the waiter’s attention.
    ‘Leave it! It’s my
     round,’ said Lucas.
    ‘If you insist. I’ll buy a
     round when this is over. Goodbye, Lucas.’
    ‘Goodbye, chief.’
    Lucas’ hand lingered for a moment
     in Maigret’s rough paw.
    ‘All the same, you will take care,
     won’t you?’
    And Maigret, on his feet, boomed:
    ‘I cannot stand
     cretins!’
    He walked off alone. He had plenty of
     time, since he had no idea where he was going.

5.
    As Maigret pushed open the door of the
     Tabac Fontaine, at around 1.30, the owner, who had just risen, was slowly making his
     way down a spiral staircase into the back of the café. Although not as tall as
     Maigret, he was just as broad and burly. As he crossed the room, he exuded a whiff
     of the bathroom – his hair reeked of cologne and there were traces of talcum powder
     behind his ears. He wore neither a jacket nor a collar. His lightly starched shirt
     was snowy white, fastened by a swivel stud.
    He went behind the bar, shoving the