replied:
‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything.
I’m simply asking you where you were.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Maybe it is, maybe it
isn’t.’
‘I was in
Marseille, because of the arrival of the
Glasco
! A ship carrying wool from home
which is now in Amsterdam unable to unload because of the dockers’
strike.’
‘You didn’t see your
father?’
‘I didn’t …’
‘Another question, the last. Who paid
your father’s allowance? And how much was it?’
‘Me! Five thousand francs a month
… Do you want to reveal that to the papers?’
The sound of the typewriter could still be
heard: the bell at the end of each line, the shunt of the carriage return.
Maigret stood up and picked up his hat.
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it … Thank
you.’
The telephone rang again, but the young man
showed no sign of answering it. He merely watched, as if incredulous, as Maigret made
for the door.
Then, in desperation, he grabbed an
envelope from the table.
‘I have something here for the police
welfare fund …’
Maigret was already in the corridor. A
little later, he was descending the sumptuous staircase, crossing the lobby, preceded by
a liveried flunkey.
At nine o’clock he dined alone in the
dining room of the Hôtel Bacon while flicking through the telephone directory. He asked
for three Cannes numbers in quick succession. Only the third one got a reply:
‘Yes, it’s next to
…’
‘Excellent! Would you be so kind as
to tell Madame Jaja
that the funeral will take place tomorrow at seven
o’clock in Antibes? … Yes, the funeral … She will understand
…’
He took a short walk around the room. From
the window he could see, five hundred metres away, Brown’s white villa, where two
windows were lit up.
Did he have the energy?
No! He needed sleep.
‘They are on the phone, aren’t
they?’
‘Yes, inspector. Do you want me to
call them?’
A sweet little maid in a white bonnet, who
was scurrying round the room like a mouse.
‘Sir, I have one of the ladies on the
line …’
Maigret took the receiver.
‘Hello! … It’s the
inspector here … Yes … I wasn’t able to come and see you … The
funeral is at seven tomorrow morning … What’s that? … No! Not this
evening … I have work to do … Goodnight, madame …’
It must have been the mother. No doubt she
was running madly to announce the news to her daughter. Then they would both be
discussing what they had to do.
The landlady of the Hôtel Bacon came into
the room, smiling blandly.
‘Did you enjoy the bouillabaisse? I
made it especially for you, since you …’
The bouillabaisse? Maigret searched his
memory.
‘Ah yes! Excellent! Very fine!’
he forced himself to say with a polite smile.
But he couldn’t remember it. It was
lost in the fog of useless things, stashed higgledy-piggledy alongside Boutigues, the
bus, the garage …
Of all the culinary
details, only one stood out: the leg of mutton at Jaja’s, and the salad with the
fragrance of garlic …
No, wait! There was another one: the sweet
smell of the port that he didn’t drink at the Provençal, which mingled with the
sickly scent of Brown’s after-shave.
‘Bring me up a bottle of
Vittel!’ he said as he mounted the stairs.
5. The Funeral of William
Brown
The sun was already intoxicating, and
although all the shutters were closed and the pavements deserted in the town’s
streets, the market was starting to come to life. It was the light and carefree sort of
life of people who get up early and have time to fill and spend it whining in French and
Italian rather than bustling about.
The yellow façade of the town hall with its
double front steps stood right in the middle of the market. The mortuary was in the
basement.
It was there, at ten minutes to seven, that
a hearse drew up, completely black and
‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything.
I’m simply asking you where you were.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Maybe it is, maybe it
isn’t.’
‘I was in
Marseille, because of the arrival of the
Glasco
! A ship carrying wool from home
which is now in Amsterdam unable to unload because of the dockers’
strike.’
‘You didn’t see your
father?’
‘I didn’t …’
‘Another question, the last. Who paid
your father’s allowance? And how much was it?’
‘Me! Five thousand francs a month
… Do you want to reveal that to the papers?’
The sound of the typewriter could still be
heard: the bell at the end of each line, the shunt of the carriage return.
Maigret stood up and picked up his hat.
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it … Thank
you.’
The telephone rang again, but the young man
showed no sign of answering it. He merely watched, as if incredulous, as Maigret made
for the door.
Then, in desperation, he grabbed an
envelope from the table.
‘I have something here for the police
welfare fund …’
Maigret was already in the corridor. A
little later, he was descending the sumptuous staircase, crossing the lobby, preceded by
a liveried flunkey.
At nine o’clock he dined alone in the
dining room of the Hôtel Bacon while flicking through the telephone directory. He asked
for three Cannes numbers in quick succession. Only the third one got a reply:
‘Yes, it’s next to
…’
‘Excellent! Would you be so kind as
to tell Madame Jaja
that the funeral will take place tomorrow at seven
o’clock in Antibes? … Yes, the funeral … She will understand
…’
He took a short walk around the room. From
the window he could see, five hundred metres away, Brown’s white villa, where two
windows were lit up.
Did he have the energy?
No! He needed sleep.
‘They are on the phone, aren’t
they?’
‘Yes, inspector. Do you want me to
call them?’
A sweet little maid in a white bonnet, who
was scurrying round the room like a mouse.
‘Sir, I have one of the ladies on the
line …’
Maigret took the receiver.
‘Hello! … It’s the
inspector here … Yes … I wasn’t able to come and see you … The
funeral is at seven tomorrow morning … What’s that? … No! Not this
evening … I have work to do … Goodnight, madame …’
It must have been the mother. No doubt she
was running madly to announce the news to her daughter. Then they would both be
discussing what they had to do.
The landlady of the Hôtel Bacon came into
the room, smiling blandly.
‘Did you enjoy the bouillabaisse? I
made it especially for you, since you …’
The bouillabaisse? Maigret searched his
memory.
‘Ah yes! Excellent! Very fine!’
he forced himself to say with a polite smile.
But he couldn’t remember it. It was
lost in the fog of useless things, stashed higgledy-piggledy alongside Boutigues, the
bus, the garage …
Of all the culinary
details, only one stood out: the leg of mutton at Jaja’s, and the salad with the
fragrance of garlic …
No, wait! There was another one: the sweet
smell of the port that he didn’t drink at the Provençal, which mingled with the
sickly scent of Brown’s after-shave.
‘Bring me up a bottle of
Vittel!’ he said as he mounted the stairs.
5. The Funeral of William
Brown
The sun was already intoxicating, and
although all the shutters were closed and the pavements deserted in the town’s
streets, the market was starting to come to life. It was the light and carefree sort of
life of people who get up early and have time to fill and spend it whining in French and
Italian rather than bustling about.
The yellow façade of the town hall with its
double front steps stood right in the middle of the market. The mortuary was in the
basement.
It was there, at ten minutes to seven, that
a hearse drew up, completely black and
Similar Books
