Cécile is Dead by Georges Simenon Page B

good enough to go back into your
     apartment, please, Monsieur Dandurand,’ said Maigret.
    The Siveschis’ door had opened, and
     another door on the floor below was opening as well.
    â€˜Follow me, Monsieur Gérard. You can
     go back downstairs now, Madame Benoit.’
    The inspector had the key to the dead
     woman’s apartment in his pocket. Letting the young man go ahead of him, he bolted
     the door after them.
    â€˜Have you only just heard that
     …’
    â€˜Is it true? Cécile is
     dead?’
    â€˜Who told you?’
    â€˜The concierge.’
    The specialists from Criminal Records had
     turned the apartment upside down; they had searched all the drawers and cupboards and
     left the contents scattered willy-nilly.
    â€˜My sister?’
    â€˜Cécile is dead, yes.’
    Gérard was in such a nervous condition that
     he couldn’t shed tears. He was looking round as if unable to understand what had
     happened, and his expression of dismay made him a sad sight.
    â€˜It’s impossible … where is
     she?’
    â€˜Not here. Calm down … wait a
     moment.’
    He remembered seeing a bottle of rum in a
     cupboard, found it and offered it to the young man. ‘Drink some of this. Now, how
     did you find out that …?’
    â€˜I was at the
     café when …’
    â€˜Excuse me, let me ask you some
     questions. It will be quicker that way. What were you doing this afternoon?’
    â€˜I went to three different addresses.
     I’m looking for a job.’
    â€˜What kind of job?’
    Gérard grimaced. ‘Any job! My wife is
     having our baby in a few days’ time. The landlord has given us notice, and I
     …’
    â€˜Did you go home for
     dinner?’
    â€˜No, I was at the café …’
    Only then did Maigret realize that Gérard
     was drunk, or rather he had had more to drink than was good for him. ‘Were you
     looking for a job at this café?’
    A furious, hate-filled stare. ‘You
     too, of course! Like my wife! You don’t know what it’s like, chasing about
     in vain from morning to evening! Do you know what I did last week, three nights running?
     You don’t, do you? It’s all the same to you! Well, I was unloading
     vegetables at Les Halles, just to earn enough to buy food. I was hoping to meet someone
     who’d promised me work at the café this evening.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜I don’t know his name. A tall
     redhead, he deals with wireless sets.’
    â€˜What was the café?’
    â€˜You suspect me of murdering my aunt,
     don’t you?’
    He was trembling from head to foot, and
     looked as if he might be about to charge at the inspector.
    â€˜The Canon de la Bastille, if you want
     to know. I live in
Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. The
     redhead never turned up. I didn’t want to go home without …’
    â€˜Haven’t you dined?’
    â€˜What’s that got to do with you?
     There was a newspaper lying about on a table. I read the small ads first, same as usual.
     You don’t know what it’s like, reading the small ads and telling yourself …
     Well, in short …’ He made a gesture, as if dismissing a nightmare. ‘I
     suddenly saw my aunt’s name on the third page. I didn’t take it in at first.
     It was only a few lines. “Landlady in Bourg-la-Reine found strangled in her
     bed,” said the headline. And under it: “Madame Juliette Boynet, owner of a
     property in Bourg-la-Reine, has been …”’
    â€˜What time was this?’
    â€˜I don’t know. It’s ages
     since I had a watch. Maybe half past nine? Anyway, I rushed home. I told Hélène
     …’
    â€˜That’s your wife?’
    â€˜Yes. I told her my aunt was dead and
     I caught the bus.’
    â€˜Had you been drinking
     meanwhile?’
    â€˜Only a little glass to buck me up.
     Anyway, I wondered why