Maigret Read Free

first trams were setting out. Less than
     an hour later, they reached the market in Arpajon.
    ‘What do you think,
     Uncle?’
    It was draughty in the back of the car.
     The sky was clear. There was a golden glow in the east.
    ‘How could Pepito have been
     killed?’ sighed Philippe, who received no reply.
    They stopped after Arpajon to warm up in
     a café and almost at once it was daylight, with a pale sun slowly rising where the
     fields met the horizon.
    ‘There was no
     one but him and me in—’
    ‘Be quiet!’ said Maigret
     wearily.
    His nephew huddled in his corner with
     the look of a child caught misbehaving, not daring to take his eyes off the
     door.
    They entered Paris as the early-morning
     bustle was beginning. Past the Lion de Belfort, Boulevard Raspail, the Pont-Neuf
     …
    The city looked as if it had been washed
     in clean water, so bright were the colours. A train of barges was gliding slowly up
     the Seine and the tugboat whistled, puffing out clouds of immaculate steam to
     announce its flotilla.
    ‘How many passers-by were there in
     Rue Fontaine when you came out?’
    ‘I only saw the man I ran
     into.’
    Maigret sighed and emptied his pipe,
     tapping it against his heel.
    The driver pulled down the glass
     partition and inquired: ‘Where to?’
    They stopped for a moment at a hotel on
     the embankment to drop off Maigret’s suitcase, then they got back into the
     taxi and made their way to Rue Fontaine.
    ‘It’s not so much what
     happened at the Floria that worries me. It’s the man who bumped into
     you.’
    ‘What are you thinking?’
    ‘I’m not thinking
     anything!’
    He came out with this favourite
     expression from the past as he turned round to glimpse the outline, once so
     familiar, of the Palais de Justice.
    ‘At one point I thought of going
     to the big chief and telling him the whole story,’ muttered Philippe.
    Maigret did not answer
     and, until they reached Rue Fontaine, he kept his gaze fixed on the view of the
     Seine as it flowed through a fine blue and gold mist.
    They pulled up a hundred metres from
     number 53. Philippe turned up the collar of his overcoat to conceal his
     dinner-jacket, but at the sight of his patent-leather shoes, people turned round to
     stare all the same.
    It was only 6.50. A window-cleaner was
     washing the windows of the corner café, the Tabac Fontaine, which stayed open all
     night. People on their way to work stopped off for a quick
café crème
with
     a croissant. There was only a waiter serving since the owner
did not get to bed
     before five or six in the morning and rose at midday. He was a swarthy young
     southern-looking fellow with black hair. There were cigar ends and cigarette butts
     lying on a table next to a slate used for keeping score for card games.
    Maigret bought a packet of shag and
     ordered a sandwich, while Philippe grew impatient.
    ‘What happened last night?’
     asked Maigret, his mouth full of bread and ham.
    And, gathering up the change, the waiter
     answered bluntly:
    ‘People are saying the owner of
     the Floria was killed.’
    ‘Palestrino?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’m on
     the day shift. And during the day, we don’t have anything to do with the
     nightclubs.’
    They left. Philippe did not dare say
     anything.
    ‘You see?’ grumbled
     Maigret.
    Standing on the kerb, he added:
    ‘That’s the work of the man
     you bumped into, you realize.Theoretically, no one should know
     anything before eight o’clock.’
    They walked towards the Floria, but they
     stopped fifty metres short. They spotted the peaked cap of a Paris police sergeant
     standing in front of the door. On the opposite pavement, a knot of people had
     gathered.
    ‘What shall I do?’
    ‘Your chief is bound to be at the
     scene. Go up to him and tell him—’
    ‘What about you, Uncle?’
    Maigret shrugged and went on:
    ‘—Tell him the truth.’
    ‘Supposing he asks where I went
     next?’
    ‘Tell him you came to fetch