The Misty Harbour by Georges Simenon

went to fetch more
     stones.
    ‘That does
     it! … They’re playing draughts. The maid’s bringing them some
     steaming glasses, must be hot grog.’
    ‘Stay there.’
    Maigret began pacing up and down the
     road. A hundred metres on: the Buvette de la Marine, then the harbour. A
     baker’s van went by. The inspector almost stopped it to make sure no one was
     hiding inside, but instead he just shrugged.
    There are some seemingly simple police
     operations that prove impracticable. Hunting for the man who had vanished into thin
     air behind the mayor’s villa, for example! A search of the dunes, along the
     beach, in the harbour and village? Roadblocks everywhere? Twenty policemen would not
     be enough. And a smart fellow would slip through the net anyway.
    Maigret didn’t even know who he
     was or what he looked like.
    The inspector returned to the wall,
     where Lucas was still standing in an awkward position.
    ‘What are they doing?’
    ‘Still playing
     draughts.’
    ‘Talking?’
    ‘Not a peep. The convict has both
     elbows on the table and is already on his third grog.’
    Fifteen minutes later, something rang
     inside the house. Lucas called Maigret over.
    ‘Phone call. The mayor’s
     trying to get up … but Big Louis got there first.’
    Although they
     couldn’t hear the conversation, it seemed to have pleased Big Louis.
    ‘They’re done?’
    ‘Back to the draughts.’
    ‘Stay there!’
    Maigret went off to the bar. A few of
     the evening regulars were playing cards and invited the inspector to join them for a
     drink.
    ‘Thanks, not now. Is there a
     telephone here, mademoiselle?’
    It was on the wall in the kitchen. An
     old woman was cleaning fish.
    ‘Hello! Ouistreham switchboard?
     Police! Would you tell me who just called the mayor’s villa?’
    ‘Caen, sir.’
    ‘What number?’
    ‘It was 122. That’s the
     train station café.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    He left the kitchen and for a good long
     moment stood lost in thought in the middle of the bar.
    Suddenly he murmured, ‘It’s
     twelve kilometres from here to Caen …’
    ‘Thirteen!’ Delcourt
     informed him, having just walked in. ‘And how’s it going,
     inspector?’
    Maigret hadn’t heard him.
    ‘… On a bike, that’s
     barely half an hour …’
    He remembered that the lock workers,
     most of whom lived in the village, came down to the harbour on bikes that sat all
     day right across from the bar.
    ‘Would you mind seeing that none
     of the bicycles is missing?’
    Then
     Maigret’s brain went into gear and moved smoothly through the chain of
     events.
    ‘Damn! It’s my bike
     that’s gone …’
    Unsurprised, the inspector asked no
     further questions but returned to the phone in the kitchen.
    ‘Give me the Caen
     police … Yes … Thank you … Hello! Police headquarters?
     Detective Chief Inspector Maigret here, Police Judiciaire. Is there still a train
     for Paris tonight? … What’s that? … Not before
     eleven? … No, but listen, please write this down.
    ‘First, make sure that Madame
     Grandmaison – the ship-owner’s wife, yes! – did in fact leave for Paris in her
     car.
    ‘Next, find out if any stranger
     showed up at Grandmaison’s office or residence today … Yes,
     that’s easy, but there’s more. You are taking all this down, right?
    ‘Finally, check all the garages in
     Caen. How many are there? Around twenty? … Then only those renting out
     cars will be of interest. Start with the ones close to the train
     station … Right! You’re looking for someone who rented a car, with
     or without a driver, for Paris – or who might have bought a second-hand
     car … Hello? Don’t hang up, damn it! … The man probably
     abandoned a bicycle in Caen.
    ‘Yes, that’s it. But do you
     have enough officers to take care of all that? … Good, that’s it
     then … And as soon as you have any information whatsoever, call me at the
     Buvette de la Marine in