Free Maigret by Georges Simenon

he had any
     business in this neighbourhood at such an hour. There could only be one explanation.
     Audiat had been instructed by the two men in the car to lure Maigret into the
     deserted back streets.
    Already, the only signs of life were the
     occasional girl hidden in the shadows, or the hesitant form of a North African going
     from one to the other before making up his mind.
    Maigret did not feel frightened straight
     away. He remained calm, puffing away on his pipe and listening to his footsteps, as
     regular as a pendulum.
    The boulevard passed over the railway
     lines coming out of the Gare du Nord, which loomed in the distance with its
     illuminated clock and empty platforms. The time was 2.30. The car was still purring
     behind them, when, for no reason, it gave a little hoot of its horn. Then Audiat
     began walking faster, so fast that he seemed to be trying not to run.
    For no apparent reason either, he
     crossed the road. Maigretcrossed too. For a second, he was
     sideways on. He saw the car out of the corner of his eye, and that was when it
     dawned on him what they were up to.
    The overground métro made the boulevard
     darker than any other part of Paris. A police cycle patrol rode past and one of the
     officers turned round to look at the car, saw nothing untoward and vanished with his
     colleagues.
    The pace was hotting up. After a hundred
     metres, Audiat crossed the road again, but this time he lost his cool and ran the
     last few steps. Maigret stopped and he could hear the car revving up. The situation
     was perfectly clear. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, for it was
     pure chance that he had avoided being run over.
    So that was it! Audiat’s job was
     to entice him through the empty streets. And then, when Maigret was halfway across
     the road, the car would mow him down.
    As if in a nightmare, Maigret was
     conscious of the sleek limousine gliding through the streets and its two occupants,
     especially Eugène, with his brilliant white teeth and angelic smile, sitting with
     his hands on the wheel waiting for the right moment.
    Could this be called a crime? Maigret
     was in danger of dying a stupid and horrible death any moment now: lying in the
     dirt, severely wounded, and howling with pain for hours before anyone would come to
     his aid.
    It was too late to turn back. In any
     case, he didn’t want to. He was no longer counting on Audiat, he had abandoned
     his plan of catching up with him and getting him to talk, but he was determined to
     continue following him. It was a question of self-respect.
    His only precaution was
     to take his gun out of his trouser pocket and to cock it.
    Then he walked a little faster. Instead
     of staying twenty metres behind Audiat, he was so close on his heels that Audiat
     thought Maigret was going to arrest him, and he too hastened his step. For a few
     seconds, it was comical, and the two men in the car must have realized what was
     going on because they came much closer.
    The trees on the boulevard and the
     pillars supporting the overhead métro filed past. Audiat was afraid, afraid of
     Maigret and perhaps too of his accomplices. When the car hooted once more to prompt
     him to cross the road, he stopped, breathless, on the kerb.
    Close on his heels, Maigret saw the
     car’s headlamps, Audiat’s soft hat and anxious eyes.
    He was about to step off the pavement
     close behind his companion when a sixth sense held him back. Perhaps Audiat had the
     same intuition, but for him it was too late. He was already in the road, advancing
     one metre, two metres …
    Maigret opened his mouth to shout a
     warning. He could see that the two men in the car, tired of this fruitless chase,
     had suddenly decided to put their foot down, even if it meant hitting their comrade
     at the same time as Maigret.
    There was no scream. A rush of air, the
     sound of an engine going at full throttle. A dull thud too, and perhaps a vague
     shout.
    The car’s red rear