The Methods of Maigret ( PDFDrive )

“Nothing. I shall say nothing more. You can question me to your heart’s
content and use all the vile methods you have at your command to make people
speak, but I’ll still say nothing.”
How like a vicious child! Perhaps because of the impressions of that morning,
Maigret couldn’t manage to take him seriously, to get it into his head that he was
dealing with a man.
The Chief Inspector didn’t sit down. He walked up and down aimlessly,
touched a rolled-up flag, stood for a moment in front of the window and saw
some little girls in white crossing the square in the care of two good sisters with
winged bonnets. He hadn’t been so far off just now in being reminded of a first
communion.
The islanders were wearing clean trousers that morning, made of cloth of a
blue that became deep and rich in the sun of the square, and the white of their
shirts was dazzling. The bowling had already started. Monsieur Émile was
making for the postoffice with his careful tread.
“I suppose you realize you’re a little rat?”
Maigret, enormous beside Philippe, looked him up and down, and the young
man instinctively raised his hands to protect his face.
“I said a little rat, a little weed who’s afraid, who’s a coward. There are people
who break into flats and run a risk. Others only go for old ladies, pinch rare
books from them to resell them, and when they are caught, start crying, begging
forgiveness, and talking about their poor mothers.”
Mr. Pyke appeared to be making himself as small and as motionless as
possible so as in no way to obstruct his colleague. One couldn’t even hear him
breathing, but the sounds from the islands came in through the open window and
mingled oddly with the Chief Inspector’s voice.
“Who first got the idea of the forged paintings?”
“I shall only reply in the presence of a lawyer.”
“So that it’s your unfortunate mother who’ll have to bleed herself white to pay
for a well-known barrister for you! For you’ll have to have a well-known one,
won’t you? you’re a repugnant creature, Moricourt!”
He stalked up and down with his hands behind his back, more like a
headmaster than ever.
“At my school we had a boy who was rather like you. Like you he was a
phony. From time to time he needed a beating up, and when we gave him one
our teacher took care to turn his back or else to leave the playground. You had
one yesterday evening and you didn’t budge. You stayed there, pale and