perhaps not exactly drunk, had been drinking a little too freely.
“Were you looking for a job in this café?”
A hard, hostile stare.
“You too!…But, of course…just like my wife!…How can you know what it’s like to chase after nonexistent jobs from morning till night? Do you know what I did last week, three nights running? No, of course not! As if you cared! Well! I unloaded vegetables at the market, just to be able to buy food…Tonight, I went to the café to meet someone who had promised me a job.”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know his name…He’s tall and redheaded, and he sells radio equipment.”
“What was the name of the café?”
“Do you suspect me of killing my aunt?”
He was shaking from head to foot, and seemed on the point of hurling himself like a madman at the Chief Superintendent.
“The Canon de la Bastille, if you really want to know. I live on Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. My friend didn’t show up. I didn’t want to go back home without…”
“Haven’t you had any dinner?”
“What’s that got to do with you?…Someone had left a newspaper behind on the table…as usual, I looked first at the small ads. You can’t imagine what it’s like, plowing through the small ads, knowing…Oh well!…”
He waved a hand, as if to brush away a nightmare.
“And suddenly, there it was on page three…My aunt’s name…I couldn’t take it in at first…it was just a few lines.”
Landlady strangled in bed in Bourg-la-Reine. Last night, Madame Juliette Boynet, a real-estate owner living in Bourg-la-Reine, was…
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know. It’s a long time since I last owned a watch…About half-past nine, maybe. I hurried back home. I told Hélène…”
“Your wife, you mean?”
“Yes…I told her that my aunt was dead, and I caught the bus.”
“Did you by any chance stop for a drink first?”
“Just a small glass to buck me up. I couldn’t understand why Cécile hadn’t let me know.”
“I presume you have expectations from your aunt?”
“Yes. My two sisters and I are her heirs…I waited for a streetcar at the Châtelet and…But about Cécile…why was Cécile killed? The concierge has just told me.”
“Cécile was killed because she knew the name of the murderer,” Maigret said slowly.
The young man, showing no signs of calming down, stretched out his hand for the bottle of rum, but the Chief Superintendent intervened.
“No, that’s enough. Sit down. What you could really do with is a cup of strong coffee.”
“Are you insinuating…?”
His tone was aggressive. As far as he was concerned, Maigret was the enemy.
“You’re not running away with the idea that I murdered my aunt and my sister, I hope?” he shouted, in a sudden spurt of rage.
Maigret made the mistake of not answering. It was not intentional. He was in the throes of one of his fits of abstraction. Or rather, to be more precise, he had just completed the imaginative leap needed to bring the interior of the apartment to life: the same apartment a few years earlier, the eccentric aunt, the three children, Cécile as an adolescent and her sister Berthe with her hair still loose, and Gérard planning to get away from it all by enlisting…
He started. The young man had seized him by the collar of his coat, and was yelling:
“Why don’t you answer? Do you believe…do you believe I…?”
A powerful smell of spirits. Maigret shrank back, and seized the young man by the wrists.
“Easy, my boy,” he murmured. “Relax…”
He had forgotten his own strength, and was holding the boy’s wrists in a grip of steel.
“You’re hurting me!” he whimpered.
At long last, his eyes overflowed with tears.
PART TWO
1
W as there an epidemic of some sort in Bourg-la-Reine? Maigret could easily have found out but, the question having once crossed his mind, he gave no further thought to it. The undertaker’s man would no doubt have told him that deaths occur in waves,
“Were you looking for a job in this café?”
A hard, hostile stare.
“You too!…But, of course…just like my wife!…How can you know what it’s like to chase after nonexistent jobs from morning till night? Do you know what I did last week, three nights running? No, of course not! As if you cared! Well! I unloaded vegetables at the market, just to be able to buy food…Tonight, I went to the café to meet someone who had promised me a job.”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know his name…He’s tall and redheaded, and he sells radio equipment.”
“What was the name of the café?”
“Do you suspect me of killing my aunt?”
He was shaking from head to foot, and seemed on the point of hurling himself like a madman at the Chief Superintendent.
“The Canon de la Bastille, if you really want to know. I live on Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. My friend didn’t show up. I didn’t want to go back home without…”
“Haven’t you had any dinner?”
“What’s that got to do with you?…Someone had left a newspaper behind on the table…as usual, I looked first at the small ads. You can’t imagine what it’s like, plowing through the small ads, knowing…Oh well!…”
He waved a hand, as if to brush away a nightmare.
“And suddenly, there it was on page three…My aunt’s name…I couldn’t take it in at first…it was just a few lines.”
Landlady strangled in bed in Bourg-la-Reine. Last night, Madame Juliette Boynet, a real-estate owner living in Bourg-la-Reine, was…
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know. It’s a long time since I last owned a watch…About half-past nine, maybe. I hurried back home. I told Hélène…”
“Your wife, you mean?”
“Yes…I told her that my aunt was dead, and I caught the bus.”
“Did you by any chance stop for a drink first?”
“Just a small glass to buck me up. I couldn’t understand why Cécile hadn’t let me know.”
“I presume you have expectations from your aunt?”
“Yes. My two sisters and I are her heirs…I waited for a streetcar at the Châtelet and…But about Cécile…why was Cécile killed? The concierge has just told me.”
“Cécile was killed because she knew the name of the murderer,” Maigret said slowly.
The young man, showing no signs of calming down, stretched out his hand for the bottle of rum, but the Chief Superintendent intervened.
“No, that’s enough. Sit down. What you could really do with is a cup of strong coffee.”
“Are you insinuating…?”
His tone was aggressive. As far as he was concerned, Maigret was the enemy.
“You’re not running away with the idea that I murdered my aunt and my sister, I hope?” he shouted, in a sudden spurt of rage.
Maigret made the mistake of not answering. It was not intentional. He was in the throes of one of his fits of abstraction. Or rather, to be more precise, he had just completed the imaginative leap needed to bring the interior of the apartment to life: the same apartment a few years earlier, the eccentric aunt, the three children, Cécile as an adolescent and her sister Berthe with her hair still loose, and Gérard planning to get away from it all by enlisting…
He started. The young man had seized him by the collar of his coat, and was yelling:
“Why don’t you answer? Do you believe…do you believe I…?”
A powerful smell of spirits. Maigret shrank back, and seized the young man by the wrists.
“Easy, my boy,” he murmured. “Relax…”
He had forgotten his own strength, and was holding the boy’s wrists in a grip of steel.
“You’re hurting me!” he whimpered.
At long last, his eyes overflowed with tears.
PART TWO
1
W as there an epidemic of some sort in Bourg-la-Reine? Maigret could easily have found out but, the question having once crossed his mind, he gave no further thought to it. The undertaker’s man would no doubt have told him that deaths occur in waves,
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