The Hotel Majestic Read Free

please, mademoiselle . . . Police Headquarters? . . . Lucas? Get over to the Gare de Lyon . . . Check on the trains to Rome from 11 a.m. yesterday . . .”
    He continued giving instructions, while his pipe went out.
    â€œTell Torrence to find Désiré’s taxi . . . Yes . . . Which is usually outside the Majestic . . . Find out where he took a fare, a tall thin American he picked up outside the hotel yesterday . . . That’s it . . .”
    He looked for an ashtray in which to empty his pipe. The manager handed him one.
    â€œAre you sure you won’t have a cigar? . . . The nanny is in a great state . . . I thought it best to tell her . . . And the governess didn’t sleep at the hotel last night . . .”
    â€œWhat floor is the suite on?”
    â€œOn the second floor . . . Looking out over the Champs-Élysées . . . Mr. Clark’s room, separated from his wife’s by a sitting-room . . . Then the child’s room, the nanny’s and the governess’s . . . They wanted to be all together . . .”
    â€œHas the night porter left?”
    â€œHe can be reached by telephone, I know, because I had to contact him one day. His wife is the concierge at a new block of flats in Neuilly . . . Hello! . . . Can you get me . . .”
    Five minutes later they knew that Mrs. Clark had gone to the theatre alone the evening before, and that she had got back a few minutes past midnight. The nanny had not gone out. The governess on the other hand had not dined at the hotel and had been out all night.
    â€œShall we go downstairs and have a look?” Maigret sighed.
    The foyer was busier now, but no one had any idea of the drama which had taken place while they were still asleep.
    â€œWe’ll go this way . . . I’ll lead the way, superintendent . . .”
    As he spoke, the manager frowned. Someone was coming through the revolving door, letting in a shaft of sunlight. A young woman in a grey suit came in and, as she passed the post desk, asked in English: “Anything for me?”
    â€œThat’s her, superintendent—Miss Ellen Darroman . . .”
    Fine silk stockings, with straight seams. The well-groomed look of someone who had dressed with care. She didn’t look at all tired, and the brisk February air had brought colour to her cheeks.
    â€œDo you want to talk to her?”
    â€œNot yet . . . Wait a minute . . .”
    And Maigret went over to an inspector he had brought with him, who was standing in a corner of the foyer.
    â€œDon’t let that girl out of your sight . . . If she goes into her room, stand outside the door . . .”
    The cloakroom. The tall mirror turned on its hinges. The superintendent followed the manager down the narrow staircase. A sudden end to all the gilt, potted plants and elegant bustle. A smell of cooking rose to meet them.
    â€œDoes this staircase go to all the floors?”
    â€œThere are two of them . . . leading from the cellar to the attics . . . But you have to know your way around to use them . . . For instance, upstairs, there are little doors exactly the same as the other doors, but with no number on. None of the visitors would ever guess . . .”
    It was nearly eleven o’clock. There were not fifty, but more like a hundred and fifty people now, scurrying about in the basement, some in cooks’ white hats, others in waiters’ coats, or cellarmen’s aprons, and the women, like Prosper Donge’s Three Fatties, doing the rough work . . .
    â€œThis way . . . Careful you don’t get dirty or slip . . . The passages are very narrow . . .”
    Through the glass partitions everyone stared at them, and particularly at the superintendent. Jean Ramuel was busy catching each chit handed up to him as its bearer flew past, and casting an eagle eye over the contents of the trays.
    It was a shock to see the unexpected figure of a policeman standing on guard outside the cloakroom. The doctor—who was