Maigret Gets Angry by Georges Simenon

proved it.
    ‘If I’d been made of the same stuff
as you, I’d have become a good little income-tax collector like my father.
    ‘Meddle in what doesn’t concern you
if you must!
    ‘On your head be it.’
    He had regained his outer calm and his lips were
again curled in a sneer.
    Maigret, who had risen, was looking around for
his hat.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘Outside.’
    ‘Aren’t you having lunch with
us?’
    ‘I’d rather lunch
elsewhere.’
    ‘As you wish. And there again, you’re
being petty. Petty and narrow-minded.’
    ‘Is that all?’
    ‘For now, yes.’
    And, hat in hand, Maigret strode calmly over to
the door. He opened it and went out, without looking back. Outside, a shape darted off, and he
just had the time to
recognize Jean-Claude, the
eldest son, who must have been eavesdropping beneath the open window and had overheard the
entire conversation.
    He walked around the house and, in the main
drive, passed two men whom he hadn’t yet met.
    One was short and stocky with a thick neck and
big, coarse hands: Monsieur Campois probably, for he matched the description Jeanne had given
him the previous evening. The other, who must have been his grandson, was a strapping boy with
an open face.
    They stared at him in bewilderment, as he made
his way calmly towards the gate, then they both turned around to look at him, stopping even to
watch him.
    ‘That’s one thing out of the
way!’ said Maigret to himself as he walked off along the towpath.
    A boat was crossing the river, steered by an old
man in a yellowish linen suit, with a splendid red tie. It was Monsieur Groux, on his way to the
gathering. They would all be there, except him, for whose benefit this lunch had been arranged
in the first place.
    What about Georges-Henry? Maigret began to move
faster. He wasn’t hungry, but he was terribly thirsty. In any case, he swore to himself
again that, whatever happened, he would drink no more little tipples of Kummel with old
Jeanne.
    When he walked into L’Ange, he did not see
the owner in her usual place by the grandfather clock. He poked his head around the half-open
kitchen door and Raymonde called out:
    ‘I thought you weren’t having lunch
here?’
    Then, raising her plump arms to the heavens:
    ‘I haven’t cooked anything. Madame is
unwell and doesn’t want to come downstairs.’
    There wasn’t even any beer in the
house.

4. The Top
Kennel
    It would have been hard to say how it happened:
the fact was that Maigret and Raymonde were now friends. Only an hour ago, she was sorely
tempted to ban him from entering her kitchen.
    ‘I have nothing to eat, I tell
you.’
    What’s more, she didn’t like men. She
found them violent and they smelled unpleasant. Most of the men who came to L’Ange, even
the married ones, tried to grope her and it disgusted her.
    She had wanted to become a nun. She was tall and
languid despite her apparent energy.
    ‘What are you after?’ she asked
impatiently, seeing Maigret standing in front of the open larder.
    ‘A little leftover something-or-other.
Anything. It’s so hot that I haven’t got the energy to go and eat up at the
lock.’
    ‘Well, there aren’t any leftovers
here! First of all, in theory, the place is closed. As a matter of fact, it’s up for sale.
Has been for three years. And each time the sale is about to go through, the old lady wavers,
finds reasons to object and ends up saying no. She doesn’t need to make her living from
it, does she!’
    ‘What about you, what are you going to
eat?’
    ‘Bread and cheese.’
    ‘Do you not think there’ll be enough for the two of
us?’
    He looked kind, with his slightly flushed face
and his round eyes. He had made himself at home in the kitchen and ignored Raymonde when she
said:
    ‘Get out of here, it hasn’t been
cleaned yet. I’ll lay you a place in the dining room.’
    He had dug his heels in.
    ‘I’ll go and see if there isn’t
a tin of sardines left, but it’ll be lucky if there is.