The Carter of ’La Providence’ Read Free

chair, pulled another to him for his feet and summoned the landlord with a snap of his fingers.
    His companion, who was probably twenty-five or so, spoke to him in English in a tone of snobbish indifference.
    It was the younger man who asked, with no trace of an accent:
    â€˜You have still champagne? I mean without bubbles?’
    â€˜I have.’
    â€˜Bring us a bottle.’
    They were both smoking imported cork-tipped Turkish cigarettes.
    The watermen’s talk, momentarily suspended, slowly started up again.
    Not long after the landlord had brought the wine, the man who had handled the yacht arrived, also in white trousers and wearing a blue-striped sailor’s jersey.
    â€˜Over here, Vladimir.’
    The bigger man yawned, exuding pure, distilled boredom. He emptied his glass with a scowl, indicating that his thirst was only half satisfied.
    â€˜Another bottle!’ he breathed at the young man.
    The young man repeated the words more loudly, as if he was accustomed to passing on orders in this way.
    â€˜Another bottle! Of the same!’
    Maigret emerged from his corner table, where he had been nursing a bottle of beer.
    â€˜Excuse me, gentlemen, would you mind if I asked you a question?’
    The older man indicated his companion with a gesture which meant:
    â€˜Talk to him.’
    He showed neither surprise nor interest. The sailor poured himself a drink and cut the end off a cigar.
    â€˜Did you get here along the Marne?’
    â€˜Yes, of course, along the Marne.’
    â€˜Did you tie up last night far from here?’
    The big man turned his head and said in English:
    â€˜Tell him it’s none of his business.’
    Maigret pretended he had not understood and, without saying any more, produced a photograph of the corpse from his wallet and laid it on the brown oilcloth on the table.
    The bargees, sitting at their tables or standing at the bar, followed the scene with their eyes.
    The yacht’s owner, hardly moving his head, looked at the photo. Then he stared at Maigret and murmured:
    â€˜Police?’
    He spoke with a strong English accent in a voice that sounded hoarse.
    â€˜Police Judiciaire. There was a murder here last night. The victim has not yet been identified.’
    â€˜Where is she now?’ the other man asked, getting up and pointing to the photo.
    â€˜In the morgue at Épernay. Do you know her?’
    The Englishman’s expression was impenetrable. But Maigret registered that his huge, apoplectic neck had turned reddish blue.
    The man picked up his white yachting cap, jammed it on his balding head, then muttered something in English as he turned to his companion.
    â€˜More complications!’
    Then, ignoring the gawping watermen, he took a strong pull on his cigarette and said:
    â€˜It’s my wife!’
    The words were less audible that the patter of the rain against the window panes or even the creaking of the windlass that opened the lock gates. The ensuing silence, which lasted a few seconds, was absolute, as if all life had been
suspended.
    â€˜Pay the man, Willy.’
    The Englishman threw his oilskin over his shoulders, without putting his arms in the sleeves, and growled in Maigret’s direction.
    â€˜Come to the boat.’
    The sailor he had called Vladimir polished off the bottle of champagne and then left, accompanied by Willy.
    The first thing the inspector saw when he arrived on board was a woman in a dressing gown dozing on a dark-red velvet bunk. Her feet were bare and her hair uncombed.
    The Englishman touched her on the shoulder and with the same poker face he had worn earlier he said in a voice entirely lacking in courtesy:
    â€˜Out!’
    Then he waited, his eye straying to a folding table, where there was a bottle of whisky and half a dozen dirty glasses plus an ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends.
    In the end, he poured himself a drink mechanically and
pushed the bottle in Maigret’s direction with a