which make him feel nauseous. Thereâs nothing to be gained by
making a spectacle of the boy â heâll probably start blubbing at any moment
âNot thirsty?â
Pétillon shakes his head.
âIn that case, letâs go
â¦â
Maigret pays for his drink, although the
clubâs owner rushes forwards to say itâs on the house.
âLook ⦠I think youâre going to
have to do without your saxophone-player tonight. Weâre both going out for a breather
⦠Pétillon, get your hat and coat.â
âI havenât got a coat.â
Theyâre hardly outside on the pavement
before he takes a deep breath and dives in:
âListen, inspector ⦠Itâs best
if I tell you everything ⦠I canât go on like this â¦â
He is all of a tremble. He must be seeing the
lights inthe street dancing all round him. The owner of the Pelican and the
black doorman watch them go.
âIn your own time, boy â¦â
Heâll take him back to headquarters;
itâs the simplest way. How many investigations have ended in Maigretâs office at
this time of night, when the entire Police Judiciaire building is deserted, a single officer
stands guard at the main entrance and the lamp with the green shade casts a strange light on the
man who has cracked.
This one is just a kid. Maigret feels peevish.
Really! In this case he has such sub-standard opponents to deal with!
âIn here.â
He steers him into a brasserie in Place Pigalle.
He needs a beer before he hails a taxi.
âWhat are you having?â
âI donât care ⦠I swear,
inspector, I never â¦â
âOf course you didnât. You can tell
me all about it soon enough ⦠Two beers, waiter!â
He gives a shrug. Two more customers who
recognize him and prefer to abandon their onion soup and clear out. Another goes into the
call-box, where, through the diamond-shaped window, he can be seen hunched over the public
phone.
âAre you sleeping with her?â
âWho?â
Aha! The kid is genuinely amazed: there are
inflections in his voice which are unmistakeable.
âFélicie.â
And Pétillon repeats, like someone who has
never ever thought of such a thing and does not understand:
âMe? Sleep with
Félicie?â
Heâs all at sea. He was about to launch
into a dramatic confession, and now this man who holds his fate in his hands, this Maigret who
unleashed a whole pack of plainclothes officers on his trail, is talking about his uncleâs
housekeeper!
âI swear, inspector â¦â
âGood ⦠Come on, letâs go
â¦â
They are being overheard. Two small women,
pretending to powder their noses. Thereâs nothing to be gained by providing the floor
show.
They are now outside again. A few metres away, in
the darkness of Place Pigalle, a line of cabs is waiting, and Maigret is about to hail one; he
already has his arm up. Not far away, on a corner of the street, a uniformed policeman is
looking vaguely around him.
At that exact moment, a shot rings out. The
inspector has the impression that there is a second shot almost at the same instant as the
first, and a taxi revs and drives off towards Boulevard Rochechouart.
It all happens so quickly that it takes him a
second or two to notice that the man at his side is clutching his chest, though he stays on his
feet, swaying, reaching out with his other hand for something to hang on to. Mechanically he
asks:
âAre you hit?â
The policeman is running towards the line of
cabs. He gets into the driving seat of one of them, and it roars into life. A public-spirited
driver jumps on to the running board.
Pétillon falls to the ground, his hand
pressed to the frontof his dress shirt. He tries to call out, but the only
sound he makes is a peculiar and ridiculously feeble croak.
The next morning, the papers publish only a
brief paragraph:
Late last night, in
making a spectacle of the boy â heâll probably start blubbing at any moment
âNot thirsty?â
Pétillon shakes his head.
âIn that case, letâs go
â¦â
Maigret pays for his drink, although the
clubâs owner rushes forwards to say itâs on the house.
âLook ⦠I think youâre going to
have to do without your saxophone-player tonight. Weâre both going out for a breather
⦠Pétillon, get your hat and coat.â
âI havenât got a coat.â
Theyâre hardly outside on the pavement
before he takes a deep breath and dives in:
âListen, inspector ⦠Itâs best
if I tell you everything ⦠I canât go on like this â¦â
He is all of a tremble. He must be seeing the
lights inthe street dancing all round him. The owner of the Pelican and the
black doorman watch them go.
âIn your own time, boy â¦â
Heâll take him back to headquarters;
itâs the simplest way. How many investigations have ended in Maigretâs office at
this time of night, when the entire Police Judiciaire building is deserted, a single officer
stands guard at the main entrance and the lamp with the green shade casts a strange light on the
man who has cracked.
This one is just a kid. Maigret feels peevish.
Really! In this case he has such sub-standard opponents to deal with!
âIn here.â
He steers him into a brasserie in Place Pigalle.
He needs a beer before he hails a taxi.
âWhat are you having?â
âI donât care ⦠I swear,
inspector, I never â¦â
âOf course you didnât. You can tell
me all about it soon enough ⦠Two beers, waiter!â
He gives a shrug. Two more customers who
recognize him and prefer to abandon their onion soup and clear out. Another goes into the
call-box, where, through the diamond-shaped window, he can be seen hunched over the public
phone.
âAre you sleeping with her?â
âWho?â
Aha! The kid is genuinely amazed: there are
inflections in his voice which are unmistakeable.
âFélicie.â
And Pétillon repeats, like someone who has
never ever thought of such a thing and does not understand:
âMe? Sleep with
Félicie?â
Heâs all at sea. He was about to launch
into a dramatic confession, and now this man who holds his fate in his hands, this Maigret who
unleashed a whole pack of plainclothes officers on his trail, is talking about his uncleâs
housekeeper!
âI swear, inspector â¦â
âGood ⦠Come on, letâs go
â¦â
They are being overheard. Two small women,
pretending to powder their noses. Thereâs nothing to be gained by providing the floor
show.
They are now outside again. A few metres away, in
the darkness of Place Pigalle, a line of cabs is waiting, and Maigret is about to hail one; he
already has his arm up. Not far away, on a corner of the street, a uniformed policeman is
looking vaguely around him.
At that exact moment, a shot rings out. The
inspector has the impression that there is a second shot almost at the same instant as the
first, and a taxi revs and drives off towards Boulevard Rochechouart.
It all happens so quickly that it takes him a
second or two to notice that the man at his side is clutching his chest, though he stays on his
feet, swaying, reaching out with his other hand for something to hang on to. Mechanically he
asks:
âAre you hit?â
The policeman is running towards the line of
cabs. He gets into the driving seat of one of them, and it roars into life. A public-spirited
driver jumps on to the running board.
Pétillon falls to the ground, his hand
pressed to the frontof his dress shirt. He tries to call out, but the only
sound he makes is a peculiar and ridiculously feeble croak.
The next morning, the papers publish only a
brief paragraph:
Late last night, in
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