Maigret Gets Angry by Georges Simenon

capable of disinheriting them as far as
the law allows.
    ‘That’s all I managed to dig
up.’
    A few more beers.
    ‘Will you have lunch with me,
Lucas?’
    They had lunch together, like in the good old
days. Then Maigret took an omnibus to Luna Park, where at first he was disappointed not to find
Mimile in the menagerie.
    ‘He’s bound to be in one of the local
cafés! You might find him in Le Cadran. Or perhaps at Léon’s
,
unless
he’s at the tobacconist’s on the corner.’
    Mimile was at the tobacconist’s and Maigret
began by
buying him an aged
marc
brandy.
He was a man of indeterminate age, with colourless hair, one of those men whom life has worn
down like a coin to the point where they have no contours. You could never tell whether he was
drunk or sober, for he always had the same hazy look, the same nonchalant air, from dawn till
dusk.
    ‘What can I do for you, boss?’
    He had a criminal record at the Préfecture,
quite a thick file. But he had calmed down years ago, and now did the occasional small favour
for his former foe at Quai des Orfèvres.
    ‘Can you leave Paris for twenty-four
hours?’
    ‘As long as I can find the Pole.’
    ‘What Pole?’
    ‘A fellow I know, but whose name is too
complicated for me to remember. He was with Cirque Amar for a long time and he could take care
of my animals. Let me telephone. A little drink first, eh boss?’
    Two little drinks, three little drinks, a couple
of brief calls from the telephone booth and finally Mimile announced:
    ‘I’m your man!’
    While Maigret explained what he wanted of him,
Mimile had the dismayed look of a clown being hit repeatedly over the head with a stick, his
rubbery lips repeating over and over again:
    ‘Well I don’t know, I really
don’t know … It’s only because it’s you who’s asking me to do it
that I’m not reporting you to the police right away. Talk of a weird job, this is a weird
job, all right.’
    ‘Have you got it?’
    ‘I’ve got it. I’ve completely got it.’
    ‘Will you make sure you have everything you
need?’
    ‘And more! I know what I’m
doing.’
    As a precaution, Maigret drew him a little map of
the place, checked the timetable and repeated his detailed instructions twice.
    ‘Everything has to be ready by ten
o’clock, I get it! You can count on me. As long as you’re the one who takes the rap
if there’s trouble.’
    They boarded the same train, shortly after four
o’clock, pretending not to know each other, and Mimile, who had put an old bicycle
belonging to the owner of the menagerie in the luggage compartment, got off one station before
the Orsenne halt.
    A few minutes later, Maigret calmly alighted,
like an old regular, and lingered to chat to the crossing-keeper, who doubled as
stationmaster.
    He began by commenting that it was hotter in the
country than in Paris, and it was true, for the heat in the valley was suffocating that day.
    ‘Tell me, they must serve a reasonably
decent white wine in that café, do they?’
    The café was fifty metres from the station,
and shortly the two men were sitting at a table with a bottle of white wine in front of them.
Soon there was a series of little glasses in front of them too, that succeeded each other at an
increasingly rapid rate.
    An hour later, it was plain that the
crossing-keeper would sleep well that night, and that was all that Maigret required of him.
    As
for him, he had made a point of spilling most of the alcohol that they had been served and he
did not feel too sleepy as he ambled down to the river and a little later walked into the little
garden of L’Ange.
    Raymonde looked surprised to see him again so
soon.
    ‘What about Madame Jeanne?’ he
asked.
    ‘She’s still in her room. By the way,
a letter arrived for you. It was delivered just after you left. Maybe the train hadn’t
arrived yet. If I hadn’t been all alone, I’d have brought it to the
station.’
    With a black border, of course.
Monsieur,
    I wish you to stop