like that of a woman in love.
âYou see, it might not be tonight. It
could be in three, five, maybe ten days. How do I know? Iâm afraid, inspector. The
idea of a man â¦â
âWhere do you live?â
âIn Bourg-la-Reine, a kilometre from
Porte dâOrléans, on the main road ⦠just opposite the fifth tram stop. Itâs
a big five-storey apartment building, brick, and thereâs a bicycle shop and a
grocerâs on the ground floor. We live on the fifth floor.â
Lucas had gone there and had asked the
neighbours questions. When he came back he was sceptical.
âAn old lady who hasnât been out
of the place for months, and her niece who acts as her maidservant and looks after her
in general.â
The local police were asked to keep an eye
on the building, which was under surveillance for almost a month. No one ever saw anyone
but the tenants going in and out of it by night.
And yet Cécile kept returning to Quai des
Orfèvres.
âHeâs been back again,
inspector. This time he left ink marks on the blotter. Iâd changed the blotting
paper yesterday evening.â
âAnd he didnât take anything
away?â
âNo,
nothing.â
Maigret had been imprudent enough to tell
the story to his colleagues, and the whole of Quai des Orfèvres was greatly amused.
âMaigret has made a
conquest.â
They went to take a look at the young lady
with the squint through the glazed partition of the waiting room and then visited
Maigretâs office.
âQuick â thereâs someone to see
you!â
âWho is it?â
âYour love-sick admirer.â
Lucas had spent eight nights running lying
in wait in the stairwell of the building and had neither seen nor heard anything.
âIt could be tomorrow,â Cécile
said.
It was left at that.
âCécile is here â¦â
Cécile was famous. Everyone called her
Cécile. If a junior officer wanted to see Maigret, he was told, âCareful.
Thereâs someone in there.â
âWho is it?â
âCécile.â
Maigret changed to another tram at Porte
dâOrléans and got off at the fifth stop. A building rose on the right, by itself,
alone between two tracts of waste land; you might have thought you were on a thin slice
of road, cut from a block of Neapolitan ice cream.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Cars were
driving towards Arpajon and Orléans. Trucks were coming back from Les Halles. The door
of the apartment building was wedged
between
the bicycle shop and the grocery. The concierge was peeling carrots.
âHas Mademoiselle Pardon come home
yet?â
âMademoiselle Cécile? I donât
think so. You can always ring the bell, and Madame Boynet will open the door.â
âI thought she was
disabled.â
âAlmost, but sheâs had a system
rigged up so that she can open the door from her armchair, like in my lodge here.
Thatâs to say, if she wants to.â
Five floors. Maigret hated stairs. These
were dark, and the stairwell was covered with wallpaper the colour of tobacco juice. The
walls were well seasoned; the smell changed from landing to landing, depending on what
people were cooking. So did the noises. Piano music, children yowling, and somewhere the
echoes of a heated argument.
There was a dusty business card, saying
âJean Siveschiâ, under the electric bell on the left-hand door on the fifth
floor, so it must be the door on the right that he wanted. He rang the bell there. The
sound passed from room to room, but there was no click, and the door did not open. He
rang again. His uneasiness was turning to anxiety and his anxiety to remorse.
âWhat is it?â asked a
womanâs voice behind him.
He turned and saw a plump young woman whose
blue dressing gown made her look even more alluring.
âMadame