The Carter of ’La Providence’ Read Free Page A

gesture which meant:
    â€˜If you want one …’
    A barge passed on a level with the portholes, and fifty metres further on the carter brought his horses to a halt. There was the sound of bells on their harness jangling.

2. The Passengers on Board the Southern Cross
    Maigret was almost as tall and broad as the Englishman. At police headquarters on Quai des Orfèvres, his imperturbability was legendary. But now he was exasperated by the calm of the man he wanted to question.
    Calm seemed to be the order of the day on the boat. From Vladimir, who sailed it, to the woman they had roused from her sleep, everyone on board seemed either detached or dazed. They were like people dragged out of bed after a night of serious
drinking.
    One detail among many: as she got up and looked round for a packet of cigarettes, the woman noticed the photo which the Englishman had put down on the table. During the short walk from the Café de la Marine to the yacht, it had got wet.
    â€˜Mary?’ She put the question scarcely batting an eye.
    â€˜Yes. Mary.’
    And that was it! She went out through a door which opened into the cabin and presumably was the door to the bathroom.
    Willy appeared on deck and poked his head in through the hatchway. The cabin was cramped. Its varnished mahogany walls were thin and anyone forward could hear
every word, for its owner looked first in
that direction, frowning, then at the young man saying impatiently:
    â€˜Come in … and sharp about it!’
    Then, turning to Maigret, he added curtly:
    â€˜Sir Walter Lampson, Colonel, Indian Army, retired.’
    He accompanied this introduction of himself with a stiff little bow and a motion of the hand towards the bench seat along the cabin wall.
    â€˜And you are …?’ said the inspector, turning towards Willy.
    â€˜A friend … Willy Marco.’
    â€˜Spanish?’
    The colonel gave a shrug. Maigret scanned the young man’s visibly Jewish features.
    â€˜My father is Greek and my mother Hungarian.’
    â€˜Sir Walter, I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions.’
    Willy had sat down casually on the back of a chair and was rocking backwards and forwards, smoking a cigarette.
    â€˜I’m listening.’
    But just as Maigret was about to open his mouth, the yacht’s owner barked:
    â€˜Who did it? Do you know?’
    He meant the perpetrator of the crime.
    â€˜We haven’t come up with anything so far. That’s why you can be useful to our inquiries by filling me in on a number of points.’
    â€˜Was it a rope?’ he continued, holding one hand against his throat.
    â€˜No. The murderer used his hands. When was the last time you saw Mrs Lampson?’
    â€˜Willy …?’
    Willy was obviously his general factotum, expected to order the drinks and answer questions put to the colonel.
    â€˜Meaux. Thursday evening,’ he said.
    â€˜And you did not report her disappearance to the police?’
    Sir Walter helped himself to another whisky.
    â€˜Why should I? She was free to do whatever she pleased.’
    â€˜Did she often go off like that?’
    â€˜Sometimes.’
    The sound of rain pattered on the deck overhead. Dusk was turning into night. Willy Marco turned the electric light on.
    â€˜Batteries been charged up?’ the colonel asked him in English. ‘It’s not going to be like the other day?’
    Maigret was trying to maintain a coherent asked questioning. But he was constantly being distracted by new impressions.
    Despite his best efforts, he kept looking at everything, thinking about everything simultaneously. As a result his head was filled with a jumble of half-formed ideas.
    He was not so much annoyed as made to feel uneasy by this man who, in the Café de la Marine, had cast a quick glance at the photo and said without flinching:
    â€˜It’s my wife.’
    And he recalled the woman in the dressing gown