Maigret Gets Angry Read Free Page B

Maigret, annoyed.
    ‘Eh? What did you say?’
    ‘I said that I’d stay here …
It’s already been arranged with Jeanne.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘I insist.’
    ‘Because of the old woman?’
    ‘What old woman?’
    A
mischievous smile hovered on Ernest Malik’s thin lips, the smile of the schoolboy he had
once been.
    He was nicknamed the Tax Collector because his
father was the tax collector in Moulins. He was very thin, with a hatchet face and
light-coloured eyes, of an unappealing grey.
    ‘Don’t worry, Jules. You’ll
understand later … Tell us, Jeanne, don’t be afraid to speak your mind. Is my
mother-in-law mad, yes or no?’
    And Jeanne, gliding noiselessly in her slippers,
muttered half-heartedly:
    ‘I’d rather not get involved in your
family affairs.’
    She was already viewing Maigret less
sympathetically, if not with distrust.
    ‘Well, are you staying here or are you
going with him?’
    ‘I’m staying.’
    Malik was still looking at his former schoolmate
mockingly, as if this were all a prank being played on Maigret.
    ‘You’re going to have a lot of fun, I
assure you … I can’t think of anywhere more lively than the Auberge de l’Ange.
You saw the angel, you were taken in!’
    Did he suddenly recall that he was in mourning?
In any case, his manner became more solemn as he added:
    ‘If all this weren’t so sad,
we’d have a good laugh, the two of us … Come up to the house at least. Yes, you
must! You have to … I’ll explain … I’ll tell you over an aperitif and
you’ll get the picture.’
    Maigret was still in two minds. He stood rooted
to the spot, massive compared to his companion, who was the same height as him but unusually
slim.
    ‘I’ll come,’ he eventually said, somewhat
reluctantly.
    ‘You’ll dine with us, of course? I
can’t pretend the house is very cheerful at the moment, after the death of my niece, but
…’
    As they left, Maigret glimpsed Jeanne, who sat
watching them from a dark corner. And he had the impression that there was hatred in the look
that she allowed to rest on Ernest Malik’s elegant form.

2. The Tax
Collector’s Second Son
    As the two men walked along the riverbank, they
must have given the impression that one had the other on a leash, as if the latter, surly and
clumsy, was letting himself be dragged along like a big, shaggy dog.
    And the truth is that Maigret was ill-at-ease.
Already, in their schooldays, he had had no fondness for the Tax Collector. What was more, he
abhorred those people from the past who suddenly pop up and give you a friendly tap on the
shoulder and treat you with familiarity.
    In short, Ernest Malik was the type who had
always made his hackles rise.
    Meanwhile Malik walked nonchalantly, relaxed in
his immaculately cut white-flannel suit, his person well groomed, his hair lustrous and his skin
dry despite the heat. He was already playing the lord of the manor showing a country bumpkin
around his estate.
    There was a sardonic glint in his eyes, as there
always had been, even when he was a boy, a furtive glint that said: ‘I’ve got you
and I’ll get you again … I’m so much smarter than you!’
    The Seine, on their left, meandered lazily and
was very wide at this point, fringed with reeds. On their right, low walls, some of them very
ancient, others almost new, separated the towpath from the houses.
    They
were few: four or five, as far as Maigret could tell. They looked opulent, set in extensive,
wellmaintained grounds, the paths visible through the metal railings.
    ‘This house belongs to my mother-in-law,
whom you had the pleasure of meeting today,’ announced Malik as they reached a big gate
with pilasters surmounted by stone lions. ‘Old Amorelle bought it, some forty years ago,
from a Second Empire finance magnate.’
    A vast edifice appeared, surrounded by trees. It
was not particularly attractive, but solid and affluent. Tiny revolving sprinklers were watering
the lawns, while an elderly gardener who