The Methods of Maigret ( PDFDrive )

“Not on your life!”
On the third day he used to hope that some unexpected job would prevent him
dining at home. Now never, since his sister-in-law had married Mouthon and the
couple had been coming to see them every year, never, ever, had one of those
cases which keep you out of doors for days and nights on end cropped up at that
moment.
From the third day onward his wife and he would exchange agonized glances,
and the Mouthons would stay for nine days, invariably pleasant, charming,
thoughtful, as discreet as could be, so that one became more vexed than ever on
coming to detest them.
It was the same with Mr. Pyke. However, it was only three days now that he
had accompanied Maigret in all his movements. One day during the holidays
they had said to Mouthon idly:
“Why not come and spend a week in Paris in the spring? We have a guest
room which is always empty.”
They had come.
Similarly, a few weeks back the Chief of Police had paid an official visit to
the Lord Mayor of London. The latter had had him shown round the offices of
the famous Scotland Yard, and the Chief had been agreeably surprised to
discover that the high officials of the English police knew Maigret by repute and
were interested in his methods.
“Why don’t you come and see him at work?” the worthy man had said.
They had taken him at his word. Just like the Mouthons. They had sent over
Inspector Pyke, and for the last three days the latter had followed Maigret about
everywhere, as discreet, as self-effacing as could be. He was none the less there.
In spite of his thirty-five or forty years he looked so young that he reminded
one of a conscientious student. He was certainly intelligent, perhaps even acutely
so. He looked, listened, reflected. He reflected so much that one seemed to be
able to hear him reflecting, and it was beginning to be wearing.
It was a little bit as though Maigret had been placed under observation. All his
gestures, all his words were carefully sifted in the cranium of the impassive Mr.
Pyke.
For three days now there had been nothing interesting to do. Just routine. Red
tape. Uninteresting interrogations like the one with Caracci.
They had come to understand one another, Pyke and he, without anything
being said. For example, the moment the night-club owner had been led off to
the sergeants’ room, where the door had been carefully closed, there was no