Inspector Maigret Omnibus: Volume 1: Pietr the Latvian; The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien; The Carter of 'La Providence'; The Grand Banks Café
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Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.
'Compelling, remorseless, brilliant.' - John Gray
'One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century . . . Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories.' - The Guardian
'A supreme writer . . . unforgettable vividness.' - The Independent
ISBN-13: 9780141396880
Media Type: Hardcover
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication Date: 06-02-2015
Pages: 544
Product Dimensions: 9.20(w) x 6.20(h) x 1.80(d)
Age Range: 18 Years
Series: Inspector Maigret
GEORGES SIMENON (1903–1989) was born in Liège, Belgium. Best known in the English-speaking world as the author of the Inspector Maigret books, his prolific output of more than four hundred novels and short stories have made him a household name in continental Europe.
Georges Simenon An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street New York, New York 10014 penguin.com Copyright © Pietr the Latvian first published, in serial, as Pieter-le-Letton, in Ric et Rac 1930 This translation first published in Penguin Classics 2013 The Carter of La Providence first published as Le Charretier de la Providence by Fayard 1931 This translation first published in Penguin Classics 2014 The Grand Banks Café first published as Au Rendez-Vous des Terre-Neuvas by Fayard 1931 This translation first published in Penguin Classics 2014 The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien first published as Le Pendue de Saint-Pholien by Fayard 1931 This translation first published in Penguin Classics 2014 Copyright 1930, 1931 by Georges Simenon Limited Translation of Pietr the Latvian copyright © 2013 by David Bellos Translation of The Carter of La Providence and The Grand Banks Café © 2014 by David Coward Translation of The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien © 2014 by Linda Coverdale GEORGES SIMENON © Simenon.tm MAIGRET © Georges Simenon Limited Cover photographs © Harry Gruyaert Front cover design © Alceu Chiesorin Nunes Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. ISBN 978-0-698-19787-9 Title Page Copyright About the Author Pietr the Latvian 1. Apparent age 32, height 169 … 2. Mixing with Millionaires 3. The Strand of Hair 4. The Seeteufel’s First Mate 5. The Russian Drunkard 6. Au Roi de Sicile 7. The Third Interval 8. Maigret Gets Serious 9. The Hit-man 10. The Return of Oswald Oppenheim 11. Arrivals and Departures 12. A Woman With a Gun 13. The Two Pietrs 14. The Ugala Club 15. Two Telegrams 16. On the Rocks 17. And a Bottle of Rum 18. Hans at Home 19. The Injured Man The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien 1. The Crime of Inspector Maigret 2. Monsieur Van Damme 3. The Herbalist’s Shop in Rue Picpus 4. The Unexpected Visitor 5. Breakdown at Luzancy 6. The Hanged Men 7. The Three Men 8. Little Klein 9. The Companions of the Apocalypse 10. Christmas Eve in Rue du Pot-au-Noir 11. The Candle End The Carter of La Providence 1. Lock 14 2. The Passengers on Board the Southern Cross 3. Mary Lampson’s Necklace 4. The Lover 5. The YCF Badge 6. The American Sailor’s Cap 7. The Bent Pedal 8. Ward 10 9. The Doctor 10. The Two Husbands 11. Right of Way The Grand Banks Café 1. The Glass Eater 2. The Tan-Coloured Shoes 3. The Headless Photograph 4. The Mark of Rage 5. Adèle and Friend 6. The Three Innocents 7. Like a Family 8. The Drunken Sailor 9. Two Men on Deck 10. What Happened on the Third Day 11. The Océan Sails Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret. Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic: My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points … ‘understand and judge not’. Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels. PENGUIN CLASSICS ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’ — William Faulkner ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’ — Muriel Spark ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’ — A. N. Wilson ‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories’ — Guardian ‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’ — Peter Ackroyd ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’ — André Gide ‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’ — Observer ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’ — Anita Brookner ‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’ — P. D. James ‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’ — Independent ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’ — John Gray ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’ — John Banville Georges Simenon 1.Apparent age 32, height 169 … ICPC to PJ Paris Xvzust Krakowvimontra m ghks triv psot uv Pietr-le-Letton Bremen vs tyz btolem. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret ofthe Flying Squad raised his eyes. It seemed to him that the cast-iron stove in themiddle of his office with its chimney tube rising to the ceiling wasn’troaring properly. He pushed the telegram away, rose ponderously to his feet,adjusted the flue and thrust three shovels of coal into the firebox. Then he stood with his back to thestove, filled his pipe and adjusted his stud collar, which was irritating his neckeven though it wasn’t set very high. He glanced at his watch. Four p.m. Hisjacket was hanging on a hook on the back of the door. Slowly he returned to his desk, mouthinga translation as he went: International Criminal PoliceCommission to Police Judiciaire in Paris: Krakow police report sighting Pietrthe Latvian en route to Bremen. The International Criminal PoliceCommission, or ICPC, is based in Vienna. Broadly speaking, it oversees the struggleagainst organized crime in Europe, with a particular responsibility for liaisonbetween the various national police forces on the Continent. Maigret pulled up another telegram that was similarlywritten in IPC, the secret international police code used for communication betweenall the world’s police forces. He translated at sight: Polizei-Präsidium Bremen to PJParis: Pietr the Latvian reported en route Amsterdam and Brussels. Another telegram from the NederlandscheCentrale in Zake Internationale Misdadigers, the Dutch police HQ, reported: At 11 a.m. Pietr the Latvianboarded Étoile du Nord, compartment G. 263, car 5, destination Paris. The final message in IPC had been sentfrom Brussels and said: Confirm Pietr the Latvian on boardÉtoile du Nord via Brussels 2 a.m. in compartment reported by Amsterdam. Behind Maigret’s desk there was ahuge map pinned to the wall. The inspector was a broad and heavy man. He stoodstaring at the map with his hands in his pockets and his pipe sticking out the sideof his mouth. His eyes travelled from the dotrepresenting Krakow to the other dot showing the port of Bremen and from there toAmsterdam and Paris. He checked the time once again.Four-twenty. The Étoile du Nord should now be hurtling along at sixty miles an hourbetween Saint-Quentin and Compiègne. It wouldn’t stop at the border. Itwouldn’t be slowing down. In car 5, compartment G. 263, Pietr theLatvian was presumably spending his time reading or looking at the scenery. Maigret went over to a door that openedonto a closet, washed his hands in an enamelbasin, ran a comb through thick dark-brown hair flecked with only a few silverstrands around the temple, and did his best to straighten out his tie – he’dnever learned how to do a proper knot. It was November and it was getting dark.Through the window he could see a branch of the Seine, Place Saint-Michel, and afloating wash-house, all in a blue shroud speckled by gas lamps lighting up oneafter the other. He opened a drawer and glanced at adispatch from the International Identification Bureau in Copenhagen. Paris PJ Pietr-le-Letton 32 16901512 0224 0255 02732 03116 03233 03243 03325 03415 03522 04115 04144 0414705221 … This time he made an effort to speak thetranslation aloud and even went over it several times, like a schoolchild reciting alesson: Description Pietr the Latvian:apparent age 32 years, height 169 cm, sinus top straight line, bottom flat,extension large max, special feature septum not visible, ear unmarked rim, lobelarge, max cross and dimension small max, protuberant antitragus, vex edge lowerfold, edge shape straight line edge feature separate lines, orthognathous upper,long face, biconcave, eyebrows thin fair light, lower lip jutting max thicklower droop, light. This ‘word-picture’ of Pietrwas as clear as a photograph to Inspector Maigret. The principal features were thefirst to emerge: the man was short, slim, young and fair-haired, with sparse blondeyebrows, greenish eyes and a long neck. Maigret now also knew the shape of hisear in the minutest detail. This would enable him to make a positive identificationin a milling crowd even if the suspect was in disguise. He took his jacket off the hook andslipped his arms into it, then put on a heavy black overcoat and a bowler hat. One last glance at the stove, whichseemed on the verge of exploding. At the end of the corridor, on the stairlanding that was used as a waiting room, he reminded Jean: ‘You won’t forget to keep mystove going, will you?’ The wind swirling up the stairs took himby surprise, and he had to shelter from the draught in a corner to get his pipe tolight. Wind and rain blew in squalls over theplatforms of Gare du Nord despite the monumental glass canopy overhead. Severalpanes had blown out and lay in shards on the railway tracks. The lightingwasn’t working properly. People huddled up inside their clothes. Outside one of the ticket windows analarming travel notice had been posted: Channel forecast: gale-forcewinds. One woman, whose son was to catch theFolkestone boat train, looked upset; her eyes were red. She kept on telling the boywhat he should do, right up to the last minute. In his embarrassment he had nochoice but to promise not to go out on deck. Maigret stood near platform 11 wherepeople were awaiting the arrival of the Étoile du Nord. All the leading hotels, aswell as Thomas Cook, had their agents standing by. He stood still. Other people wereagitated. A young woman clad in mink yetwearing only sheer silk stockings walked up and down, stamping her heels. He just stood there: a hulk of a man,with shoulders so broad as to cast a wide shadow. When people bumped into him hestayed as firm as a brick wall. The yellow speck of the train’sheadlamp appeared in the distance. Then came the usual hubbub, with porters shoutingand passengers tramping and jostling their way towards the station exit. A couple of hundred passengers paradedpast Maigret before he picked out in the crowd a short man wearing a broad-checkedgreen travelling cape of a distinctly Nordic cut and colour. The man wasn’t in a hurry. He hadthree porters behind him. Bowing and scraping, an agent from one of the grand hotelson the Champs-Élysées cleared the way in front of him. Apparent age 32, height169 … sinus top … Maigret kept calm. He looked hard at theman’s ear. That was all he needed. The man in green passed close by. One ofhis porters bumped Maigret with one of the suitcases. At exactly the same moment a railwayemployee began to run, shouting out something to his colleague standing at thestation end of the platform, next to the barrier. The chain was drawn closed. Protestserupted. The man in the travelling cape wasalready out of the station. Maigret puffed away at his pipe in quickshort bursts. He went up to the official who had closed the barrier. ‘Police! What’shappened?’ ‘A crime … They’vejust found …’ ‘Carriage 5? …’ ‘I think so …’ The station went about its regularbusiness; only platform 11 looked abnormal. There were fifty passengers stillwaiting to get out, but their path was blocked. They were getting excited. ‘Let them go …’ Maigretsaid. ‘But …’ ‘Let them go …’ He watched the last cluster move away.The station loudspeaker announced the departure of a local train. Somebody wasrunning somewhere. Beside one of the carriages of the Étoile du Nord there was asmall group waiting for something. Three of them, in railway company livery. The stationmaster got to them first. Hewas a large man and had a worried look on his face. Then a hospital stretcher waswheeled through the main hall, past clumps of people who looked at it uneasily,especially those about to depart. Maigret walked up the side of the trainwith his usual heavy tread, smoking as he went. Carriage 1, carriage2 … He came to carriage 5. That’s where the group wasstanding at the door. The stretcher came to a halt. The stationmaster tried tolisten to the three men, who were all speaking at the same time. ‘Police! Where is he?’ Maigret’s presence providedobvious relief. He propelled his placid mass towards the centre of the franticgroup. The other men instantly became his satellites. ‘In the toilet …’ Maigret hauled himself up onto the trainand saw that the toilet door on his rightwas open. On the floor, in a heap, was a body, bent double in a strangely contortedposture. The conductor was giving orders from theplatform. ‘Shunt the carriage to theyard … Hang on! … Track 62 … Let the railway policeknow …’ At first he could only see the back ofthe man’s neck. But when he tipped his cap off its oblique angle, he could seethe man’s left ear. Maigret mumbled to himself: lobe large, max cross anddimension small max, protuberant antitragus … There were a few drops of blood on thelinoleum. Maigret looked around. The railway staff were standing on the platform oron the running board. The stationmaster was still talking. So Maigret clenched his pipe between histeeth even harder and turned the man’s head over. If he hadn’t seen the traveller inthe green cloak leave the station, if he hadn’t seen him taken to a car by aninterpreter from the Majestic, he could have had doubts. It was the same physiognomy. The samefair toothbrush moustache under a sharply defined nose. The same sparse blondeyebrows. The same grey-green eyes. In other words: Pietr the Latvian! Maigret could hardly turn around in thetiny washroom, where the tap was still running and a jet of steam was seeping fromsome poorly sealed joint. He was standing right next to thecorpse. He pulled the man’s upper body upright and saw on his chest, on hisjacket and shirt, the burn-marks made by gunshot from point-blank range. It was a big blackish stain tinged withthe dark red of coagulating blood. One detail struck the inspector. He happened to notice oneof the man’s feet. It was twisted on its side, as was the whole body, whichmust have been squashed into a corner so as to allow the door to close. The shoe was black and happened to be ofa very cheap and common kind. Apparently it had been re-soled. The heel was worn onone side, and a coin-shaped gap had opened up in the middle of the sole. The local chief of the railway policehad now reached the carriage and was calling up from the platform. He was aself-confident man wearing a uniform with epaulettes. ‘So what is it, then? Murder?Suicide? Don’t touch anything until the law gets here, OK? Be careful!I’m the one who’s in charge. OK?’ Maigret had a tough time disentanglinghis own feet from the dead man’s legs to extricate himself from the toilet.With swift, professional movements he patted the man’s pockets. Clean as awhistle. Nothing in them at all. He got out of the carriage, His pipe hadgone out, his hat was askew and he had a bloodstain on his cuff. ‘Well, if it isn’tMaigret! … What do you make of it, then?’ ‘Not much. Go have a lookyourself …’ ‘It’s suicide,right?’ ‘If you say so … Did youcall the prosecutor’s office?’ ‘As soon as Iheard …’ The loudspeaker crackled with somemessage or other. A few people had noticed there was something unusual going on andstood in the distance, watching the empty train and the group of people standingnext to the running board of carriage 5. Maigret strode off without saying a word. He left thestation and hailed a cab. ‘Hôtel Majestic! …’ The storm had got even worse. Gustsswept down the streets and made pedestrians totter about like drunks. A roof tilesmashed onto the pavement. Buses, and more buses. The Champs-Élysées was almost entirelydeserted. Drops of rain had begun to fall. The porter at the Majestic dashed out tothe taxi with a huge red umbrella. ‘Police! … Has someonefrom the Étoile du Nord just checked in?’ That prompted the porter to fold hisumbrella. ‘Yes, sir, that true.’ ‘Green cape … Fairmoustache …’ ‘That right. Sir goreception.’ People were scrambling to shelter fromthe rain. Maigret got inside the hotel just in time to avoid drops as big as walnutsand cold as ice. Despite this, the receptionists andinterpreters behind the polished wood counter were as elegant and efficient asever. ‘Police … A guest in agreen cape … Small fair mousta—’ ‘Room 17, sir. His bags are ontheir way up right now …’ 2.Mixing with Millionaires Inevitably Maigret was a hostile presencein the Majestic. He constituted a kind of foreign body that the hotel’satmosphere could not assimilate. Not that he looked like a cartoonpoliceman. He didn’t have a moustache and he didn’t wear heavy boots.His clothes were well cut and made of fairly light worsted. He shaved every day andlooked after his hands. But his frame was proletarian. He was abig, bony man. Iron muscles shaped his jacket sleeves and quickly wore through newtrousers. He had a way of imposing himself just bystanding there. His assertive presence had often irked many of his owncolleagues. It was something more thanself-confidence but less than pride. He would turn up and stand like a rock with hisfeet wide apart. On that rock all would shatter, whether Maigret moved forward orstayed exactly where he was. His pipe was nailed to his jawbone. Hewasn’t going to remove it just because he was in the lobby of theMajestic. Could it be that Maigret simplypreferred to be common and self-assertive? You just couldn’t miss the manwearing a big black velvet-collared overcoat in that brightly lit lobby, whereexcitable society ladies scattered trails of perfume, tinkling laughter and loud whispers amidst the unctuouscompliments of impeccable flunkeys. He paid no attention. He wasn’tpart of the flow. He was impervious to the sound of jazz floating up from thedance-floor in the basement. The inspector started to go up one ofthe stairs. A liftboy called out and asked if he wanted to take the lift, butMaigret didn’t even turn round. At the first landing someone askedhim: ‘Are you lookingfor …?’ It was as is if the sound waveshadn’t reached him. He glanced at the corridors with their red carpetsstretching out so far that they almost made you sick. He went on up. On the second floor he read the numberson the bronze plaques. The door of no. 17 was open. Valets with striped waistcoatswere bringing in the luggage. The traveller had taken off his cloakand looked very slender and elegant in his pinstripe suit. He was smoking a papirosaand giving instructions at the same time. No. 17 wasn’t a room, but a wholesuite: lounge, study, bedroom and bathroom. The doors opened onto two intersectingcorridors, and at the corner, like a bench placed by a crossroads, there was a huge,curved sofa. That’s where Maigret sat himselfdown, right opposite the open door. He stretched out his legs and unbuttoned hisovercoat. Pietr saw him and, showing neithersurprise nor disquiet, he carried on giving instructions. When the valets hadfinished placing his trunks and cases on stands, he came to the door, held it openfor an instant to inspect the detective, then closed it himself. Maigret sat there for as long as it tookto smoke three pipes, and to dismiss tworoom-service waiters and one chambermaid who came up to inquire what he was waitingfor. On the stroke of eight Pietr the Latviancame out of his room, looking even slimmer and smarter than before, in a classicallytailored dinner jacket that must have come from Savile Row. He was hatless. His short, ash-blondhair was already thinning. His hairline was set far back and his forehead notespecially high; you could glimpse a streak of pink scalp along the parting. He had long, pale hands. On the fourthfinger of his left hand he wore a chunky platinum signet ring set with a yellowdiamond. He was smoking again – another papirosa.He walked right up to Maigret, stopped for a moment, looked at him as if he feltlike saying something, then walked on towards the lift as if lost in thought. Ten minutes later he took his seat inthe dining room at the table of Mr and Mrs Mortimer-Levingston. The latter was thecentre of attention: she had pearls worth a cool million on her neck. The previous day her husband had come tothe rescue of one of France’s biggest automobile manufacturers, with theresult that he was now its majority shareholder. The three of them were chatting merrily.Pietr talked a lot, but discreetly, with his head leaning forwards. He wascompletely at ease, natural and casual, despite being able to see thedetective’s dark outline through the glazed partition. Inspector Maigret asked reception toshow him the guest list. He wasn’t surprised to see that Pietr had signed in under the name of Oswald Oppenheim,ship-owner, from Bremen. It was a foregone conclusion that he hada genuine passport and full identity papers in that name, just as he no doubt did inseveral others. It was equally obvious that he’dmet the Mortimer-Levingstons previously, whether in Berlin, Warsaw, London or NewYork. Was the sole purpose of his presence inParis to rendezvous with them and to get away with another one of the colossal scamsthat were his trademark? Maigret had the Latvian’s filecard in his jacket pocket. It said: Extremely clever and dangerous.Nationality uncertain, from Baltic area. Reckoned to be either Latvian orEstonian. Fluent in Russian, French, English and German. High level ofeducation. Thought to be capo of major international ring mainly involved infraud. The ring has been spotted successively in Paris, Amsterdam (Van Heuvelcase), Berne (United Shipowners affair), Warsaw (Lipmann case) and in variousother European cities where identification of its methods and procedures wasless clear. Pietr the Latvian’sassociates seem to be mainly British and American. One who has been seen mostoften with him and who was identified when he presented a forged cheque for cashat the Federal Bank in Berne was killed during arrest. His alias was MajorHoward of the American Legion, but it has been established that he was actuallya former New York bootlegger known in the USA as Fat Fred. Pietr the Latvian has beenarrested twice. First, in Wiesbaden,for swindling a Munich trader out of half a million marks; second, in Madrid,for a similar offence involving a leading figure at the Spanish royal court. On both occasions he used thesame ploy. He met his victims and presumably told them that the stolen sums weresafely hidden and that having him arrested would not reveal where they were.Both times the complaint was withdrawn, and the plaintiffs were probably paidoff. Since then has never been caughtred-handed. Is probably in cahoots with theMaronnetti gang (counterfeit money and forged documents) and the Cologne gang(the ‘wall-busters’). There was another rumour doing the roundsof European police departments: Pietr, as the ring-leader and money-launderer of oneor more gangs, was said to be sitting on several million that had been split upunder different names in different banks and even invested in legitimateindustries. The man smiled subtly at the story MrsMortimer-Levingston was telling, while with his ivory hand he plucked lusciousgrapes from the bunch on his plate. ‘Excuse me, sir. Could I pleasehave a word with you?’ Maigret was speaking toMortimer-Levingston in the lobby of the Majestic after Pietr and Mortimer’swife had both gone back up to their rooms. Mortimer didn’t have the athleticlook of a Yank. He was more of the Mediterranean type. He was tall and thin. His very smallhead was topped with black hair parted down the middle. He looked permanently tired. His eyelidswere weary and blue. In any case he led an exhausting life, somehow managing to turnup in Deauville, Miami, Venice, Paris, Cannes and Berlin before getting back to his yacht andthen dashing off to do a deal in some European capital or to referee a major boxingmatch in New York or California. He looked Maigret up and down in lordlyfashion. ‘And you are …?’ ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigretof the Flying Squad …’ Mortimer barely frowned and stood thereleaning forwards as if he had decided to grant just one second of his time. ‘Are you aware you have just dinedwith Pietr the Latvian?’ ‘Is that all you have tosay?’ Maigret didn’t budge an inch. Itwas pretty much what he’d expected. He put his pipe back in his mouth –he’d allowed himself to remove it in order to speak to the millionaire – andmuttered: ‘That’s all.’ He looked pleased with himself.Levingston moved off icily and got into the lift. It was just after 9.30. The symphonyorchestra that had been playing during dinner yielded the stage to a jazz band.People were coming in from outside. Maigret hadn’t eaten. He wasstanding calmly and patiently in the middle of the lobby. The manager repeatedlygave him worried and disapproving looks from a distance. Even the lowliest membersof staff scowled as they passed by, when they didn’t manage to jostle him. The Majestic could not stomach him.Maigret persisted in being a big black unmoving stain amidst the gilding, thechandeliers, the comings and goings of silk evening gowns, fur coats and perfumed,sparkling silhouettes. Mrs Levingston was the first to come back down in thelift. She had changed, and now wore a lamé cape lined with ermine that left hershoulders bare. She seemed astonished not to find anyonewaiting for her and began to walk up and down, drumming the floor with hergold-lacquered high heels. She suddenly stopped at the polishedwooden counter where the receptionists and interpreters stood and said a few words.One of the staff pushed a red button and picked up a handset. He looked surprised and called abellboy, who rushed to the lift. Mrs Mortimer-Levingston was visiblyanxious. Through the glass door you could see the sleek shape of an American-madelimousine standing at the kerb. The bellboy reappeared, spoke to themember of staff, who in his turn said something to Mrs Mortimer. She protested. Shemust have been saying: ‘But that’simpossible!’ Maigret then went up the staircase,stopped outside suite 17, knocked on the door. As he’d expected after thecircus he’d just watched, there was no answer. He opened the door and found the loungedeserted. Pietr’s dinner jacket was lying casually on the bed in the bedroom.One trunk was open. A pair of patent-leather shoes had been left at opposite ends ofthe carpet. The manager came in and grunted: ‘You’re already here, areyou?’ ‘So? … Vanished, has he?Levingston as well! Is that right?’ ‘Now there’s no need to gooverboard. Neither of them is in his room, but we’ll probably find themsomewhere else in the hotel.’ ‘How many exits are there?’ ‘Three. The main entrance on theChamps-Élysées … Then there’s the entrance in the covered mall, andthe service entrance on Rue de Ponthieu …’ ‘Is there a security guard? Callhim …’ The telephone worked. The manager was ina temper. He took it out on an operator who couldn’t understand him. He kepthis gaze fixed on Maigret, and it was not kind. ‘What does all this mean?’he asked as he waited for the guard to come up from the glass-walled box where hewas on duty beside the service entrance. ‘Nothing, or almost, as yousaid …’ ‘I hope there’s not beena … a …’ The word crime, dreaded likethe plague by hoteliers the world over from the humblest lodging-house landlord tothe manager of a luxury resort, just would not pass his lips. ‘We’ll find out.’ Mrs Mortimer-Levingston appeared. ‘Well? …’ sheinquired. The manager bowed and mutteredsomething. A figure appeared at the far end of the corridor – an old man with astraggly beard and ill-cut clothes at odds with theRead an Excerpt
INSPECTOR MAIGRET OMNIBUS 1
PENGUIN BOOKS
PIETR THE LATVIAN
Translated by David Bellos