Maigret Gets Angry Read Free Page A

this dump,’
he muttered.
    Just then someone stirred, close to where he
stood. He shuddered and in the gloom could just make out a person moving. It was a woman wrapped
in blankets, no doubt this Jeanne whom Madame Amorelle had mentioned. Her dark, greasy hair hung
down on either side of her face and there was a thick white compress around her neck.
    ‘We’re closed!’ she
croaked.
    ‘I know, madame. I heard you were unwell.’
    Ouch! The word ‘unwell’, ridiculously
inadequate, was an insult.
    ‘I’m at death’s door, you mean!
Nobody will believe it … People are horrible.’
    Nevertheless, she finished shrugging off the
blanket covering her legs and got to her feet, her thick ankles swollen over the tops of her
felt slippers.
    ‘Who sent you here?’
    ‘It so happens I came here once before,
more than twenty years ago, and this is a sort of pilgrimage that—’
    ‘So you knew Marius?’
    ‘Of course I did!’
    ‘Poor Marius … You know he
died?’
    ‘So I heard. I found it hard to
believe.’
    ‘Why? … He wasn’t in good
health either … It’s three years since he died, and here I am, dragging on …
Were you expecting to sleep here?’
    She had spotted the suitcase that he had left in
the doorway.
    ‘I was planning to spend a few days here,
yes. As long as I’m not putting you to any trouble. In your condition—’
    ‘Have you come far?’
    ‘From the Orléans area.’
    ‘You don’t have a car?’
    ‘No. I came by train.’
    ‘And there are no trains back today. Oh
Lord! Oh Lord! Raymonde! Raymonde! … I bet she’s off gallivanting again. I’m
going to have to have words with her … If she’ll listen … Because she can be
difficult. She’s the maid, but
she takes
advantage of my being unwell to do as she pleases and anyone would think she was the one in
charge. Well, well, now what does
he
want around here?’
    She was looking out of the window at a man whose
footsteps could be heard crunching the gravel. Maigret watched him too and began to frown, for
the newcomer vaguely reminded him of someone.
    He was wearing tennis whites or country attire,
white flannel trousers, a white jacket and shoes, but what struck Maigret was his black crepe
armband.
    He came in, as if he were a regular.
    ‘Hello, Jeanne.’
    ‘What do you want, Monsieur
Malik?’
    ‘I came to ask if you—’
    He stopped mid-sentence, looked straight at
Maigret and broke into a smile, saying:
    ‘Jules! … Well I never! … What
on earth are
you
doing here?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    First of all, it had been years and years since
anyone had called him Jules, to the extent that he had almost forgotten his first name. Even his
wife was in the habit of calling him Maigret, which he found amusing.
    ‘Don’t you remember?’
    ‘No …’
    Yet that ruddy face with well-defined features, a
prominent nose, cold, steely eyes, was no stranger to him. The name Malik too, when Madame
Amorelle had uttered it, had rung a bell somewhere in the back of his mind.
    ‘Ernest.’
    ‘Ernest who?’
    Hadn’t Bernadette Amorelle spoken of a
Charles Malik?
    ‘The Moulins lycée.’
    Maigret had been a pupil at the lycée in
Moulins for three years when his father was the estate manager at a chateau in the region. Still
…
    Curiously, although his memory was unreliable, he
was certain that it was an unpleasant recollection that this well-groomed face, this man
brimming with self-confidence, stirred in him. What was more, he did not like his over-friendly
manner. He had always had a horror of familiarity.
    ‘The Tax Collector.’
    ‘I’m with you, yes … I would
never have recognized you.’
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘Me? I—’
    Malik burst out laughing.
    ‘We’ll talk about it later … I
knew perfectly well that Detective Chief Inspector Maigret was none other than my old pal Jules.
Do you remember the English teacher? … No need to make up a room, Jeanne. My friend will
stay at the house.’
    ‘No!’ protested