Pietr the Latvian (Inspector Maigret)

by Georges Simenon

Polizei-Präsidium Bremen to PJ Paris: Pietr the Latvian reported en route Amsterdam and Brussels.

Another telegram from the Nederlandsche Centrale in Zake Internationale Misdadigers, the Dutch police HQ, reported: At 11 a.m. Pietr the Latvian boarded Étoile du Nord, compartment G. 263, car 5, destination Paris.

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, lobe large, max cross and dimension small max, protuberant antitragus, vex edge lower fold, edge shape straight line edge feature separate lines, orthognathous upper, long face, biconcave, eyebrows thin fair light, lower lip jutting max thick lower droop, light.

the man was short, slim, young and fair-haired, with sparse blond eyebrows, greenish eyes and a long neck.

Outside one of the ticket windows an alarming travel notice had been posted: Channel forecast: gale-force winds.

‘Police … A guest in a green cape … Small fair mousta—’ ‘Room 17, sir. His bags are on their way up right now …’

Inevitably Maigret was a hostile presence in the Majestic. He constituted a kind of foreign body that the hotel’s atmosphere could not assimilate.

But his frame was proletarian. He was a big, bony man. Iron muscles shaped his jacket sleeves and quickly wore through new trousers. He had a way of imposing himself just by standing there. His assertive presence had often irked many of his own colleagues.

Thought to be capo of major international ring mainly involved in fraud. The ring has been spotted successively in Paris, Amsterdam (Van Heuvel case), Berne (United Shipowners affair), Warsaw (Lipmann case) and in various other European cities

Inspector Maigret was forty-five and his junior was barely thirty years old.

there was something solid and bulky about Torrence that made him an almost full-scale model of his boss. They’d conducted many cases together without ever saying an unnecessary word.

dubbed for his own use the theory of the crack in the wall. Inside every wrong-doer and crook there lives a human being.

Some crime or offence is committed. The match starts on the basis of more or less objective facts. It’s a problem with one or more unknowns that a rational mind tries to solve.

Like everyone else, he used the amazing tools

– anthropometry, the principle of the trace, and so forth – and that have turned detection into forensic science. But what he sought, what he waited and watched out for, was the crack in the wall. In other words, the inst...

the ghetto of Paris, that’s to say, the area around Rue des Rosiers, in the Marais. He sidled past shop fronts with signs in Yiddish, kosher butchers and window displays of matzot.

Ed…Matzot?

he ended up in Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, a winding street giving on to dead-end alleys, narrow lanes and overpopulated courtyards – a half-Jewish,

half-Polish colony.

The hotel’s name, Au Roi de Sicile, was written out on ceramic tiles. Underneath the nameplate were notices in Yiddish, Polish, maybe also Russian and other suchlike languages that Maigret didn’t know.

No less resolutely than the Russian, he went inside.

‘Police! Give me the name of the tenant who just came in.’

He thumbed through the ledger and read: Fyodor Yurevich, age 28, born Vilna, labourer, and Anna Gorskin, age 25, born Odessa, no occupation.

‘How long has he been staying here?’ ‘About three years.’ ‘What about Anna Gorskin?’ ‘She’s been here longer than he has … Maybe four and a half years …’

‘He pays up on time. He comes and he goes and it’s not my job to follow him around …’

you’re from the police you should know all about this establishment … I make proper returns … Officer Vermouillet can confirm that … He’s the one who comes every week …’

‘Anna Gorskin, come down now!’

She looked older than the ledger’s claim of twenty-five. That was probably hereditary. Like many Jewish women of her age, she had put on weight, but she was still quite good-looking.

‘What were you doing in the stairwell?’ ‘I live here, don’t I?

Maigret sensed straight away what kind of a woman he was dealing with. Excitable, irreverent, hammer and tongs. At the drop of a hat she could throw a fit, rouse the entire building, give an ear-splitting scream and probably accuse him of outlandish offences.

‘When did Fyodor leave?’ ‘Yesterday evening … At eleven …’ She was lying! Plain as day! But there was no point coming at her head-on – unless he wanted to pin back her arms and march her down to the station.

The street was wet, making the cobblestones glint. In every corner, in the smallest pools of shadow, in the back alleys and passageways you could sense a swarm of humiliated and rebellious humanity. Shadowy figures flitted past. Shopkeepers sold products whose very names were unknown in France.

The inspector then spied a beggar. ‘Here’s a five franc coin … Take this note to the cop at Place Saint-Paul.’ The tramp understood. Ten minutes later a uniformed sergeant turned up. ‘Call the Police Judiciaire and tell them to send me an officer straight away … Dufour, if he’s free …’

Inspector Dufour showed up. He was thirty-five and spoke three languages quite fluently, which made him a precious asset. But he had a habit

of making the simplest things sound complicated. He could turn a common burglary or a banal snatch-and-grab case into a dramatic mystery, tying himself up in knots of his own making.

If one of those two comes out, stay on their tail. But one of you has to stay behind to man the stake-out … Got that?’

‘Did my wife call?’ ‘This morning … She was told you were out on a case …’ She was used to that. He knew that if he went home she would just give him a kiss, stir the pot on the stove and serve him a delicious plate of stew.

only when he’d sat

down to eat – would be to put her chin on her hand and ask: ‘Everything OK? …’ The meal would always be ready for him, wheth...

Torrence wasn’t to be found in the lobby, but in a first-floor room in front of a top-notch dinner. He explained with a broad wink: ‘It’s all the manager’s fault! … He practically went down on bended knee to get me to accept this room and the gourmet meals he sends up …’

speaking in a whisper. He pointed to a door.

‘The Mortimers are next door …’ ‘Mortimer came back?’ ‘Around six this morning. In a foul mood. Wet, dirty, with chal...

she slept it off until four this afternoon … There wasn’t a sound from their suite until then … Then I heard whispering … Mortimer rang the front desk to have the newspapers brought up …’ ‘Nothing about the case in the papers, I hope?’ ‘Not a word. They’ve respected the embargo. Just a two-liner saying that a corpse had been found on the Étoile du Nord and that the police were treating it as suicide.’

‘Pietr’s suite?’ ‘Quiet as the grave! Nobody has been in it. I locked the door and put a blob of wax on the keyhole, so nobody can get in without my knowing …’

The rest of the night dragged on drearily. The Mortimers ate copiously – caviar and truffles au champagne, then lobster à l’américaine, followed by cheese.

Maigret didn’t like champagne, but he sipped at it to slake his thirst. He made the mistake of nibbling the roasted almonds on the table, and that made him even thirstier. He checked the time on his wristwatch: 2 a.m.

But it was all over. Weariness had set in. Mrs Mortimer looked worn out; her eyelids were dark blue. Her husband signalled to an attendant. Fur coat, overcoat and top hat were brought.

Maigret began crossing the road. A gunshot rang out. Maigret put his hand to his chest, looked around, could not see anything, but heard the footsteps of someone running away down Rue Pigalle.

He staggered on for a few metres, propelled by his own inertia. The concierge ran up to him and held him upright. People came out of Pickwick’s Bar to see what was going on. Among them Maigret noticed the tense figure of the professional dancer.

the driver lent a hand to the doorman who was propping up Maigret, without a clue what else to do. In less than half a minute the taxi was on its way with the inspector in the back. The car drove on for ten minutes or so and came to a halt in an empty street.

‘I can see it’s no big deal, like I thought. Where can I take you?’ Still, Maigret looked quite upset, mainly because it was a flesh wound. His chest had been torn; the bullet had grazed a rib and exited near his shoulder blade. ‘Quai des Orfèvres …’