Maigret's Holiday Read Free Page B

patient:
    â€˜She thinks it’s her turn
next.’
    Maigret didn’t know what to say. He
sat there, heavy and clumsy, in a foreign world.
    â€˜She was a young woman … A very
pretty young thing, apparently … in room 15 …’
    She wondered why he knitted
his bushy eyebrows and automatically took a pipe out of his pocket which he didn’t
actually fill.
    â€˜Are you sure it was 15?’
    â€˜Of course … Why?
…’
    â€˜No reason.’
    He went and sat in his chair. There was no
point telling Madame Maigret about the note, she would immediately become alarmed.
    â€˜What have you had to eat
today?’
    Mademoiselle Rinquet began to cry. Her face
was hidden, only her sparse hair could be seen on the pillow, but the blanket was
heaving fitfully.
    â€˜You shouldn’t stay too
long.’
    In his robust state of health, he was
visibly out of place among the sick and the silent, gliding nuns.
    Before leaving, he asked:
    â€˜Do you know her name?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜The girl … In number 15
…’
    â€˜Hélène Godreau
…’
    Only then did he notice that Sister Marie
des Anges was red-eyed and seemed resentful towards him. Was she the person who had
slipped the note in his pocket?
    He felt unable to ask her. All this was so
far removed from his normal world, from the dusty corridors of the Police Judiciaire,
from the people he questioned in his office, sitting them down in front of him, his eyes
boring into theirs at length and then bombarding them with harsh questions.
    What was more, this was none of his
business. A girl was dead. And then what? Someone had slipped a meaningless message into
his pocket …
    He continued on his path, like a circus
horse. In short, his days were spent going round in circles exactly like a circus horse.
Now, for example, it was time for the Brasserie du Remblai. He went there as if going to
an important meeting, whereas in fact he had absolutely no business there.
    The café was vast and bright. By the
bay windows overlooking the beach and the sea sat most of the customers whom he did not
even bother to glance at, strangers, holidaymakers, who had no routine, whom one did not
expect to see at the same table every day.
    At the back, in a spacious corner behind the
billiard table, it was a different matter, with two tables around which sat a group of
earnest, taciturn men, under the eye of a waiter attentive to the slightest signal from
them.
    They were important men, the rich, the
elders. Some of them had seen the café being built and others hadknown Les Sables d’Olonne before the construction of Le Remblai.
    Each afternoon, they gathered to play
bridge. Each afternoon, they shook hands in silence, or exchanged a few short, ritual
words.
    They had already grown accustomed to the
presence of Maigret, who did not play cards but straddled a chair and watched them play,
smoking his pipe and sipping a white wine.
    They usually waved to him by way of a
greeting. Only Monsieur Mansuy, the chief inspector of police, who had introduced him to
these men, stirred himself to get up and shake his hand.
    â€˜Is your wife continuing to
improve?’
    He answered yes, without thinking. He also
added, without thinking:
    â€˜A girl died last night, at the
hospital …’
    He had spoken softly, but even so his voice
boomed, especially in the silence that reigned over the two tables.
    He realized from the gentlemen’s
reaction that he had committed a blunder. Chief Inspector Mansuy signalled to him not to
say any more.
    Although he had been watching them play for
six days, he still hadn’t managed to understand the game. This time, he contented
himself with watching their faces.
    Monsieur Lourceau, the ship-owner, was very
old, but tall, still strong, with a ruddy face beneath a crown of white hair. He was the
best bridge player of all of them and, when his partner made a mistake, he had a way