glanced at the glass door,
afraid of seeing a certain person walk in.
At that hour, Rue Fontaine was bustling
with everyday activities like any other Paris street. Opposite the bar there was an
Italian grocery where the local housewives came to do their shopping.
‘Waiter! A calvados.’
The lethargic blonde cashier stared at
Maigret with mounting curiosity. Meanwhile, the waiter had intuited that something
was amiss, although he didn’t know what exactly, and he gave the owner
an
occasional wink.
It was just after three when a big,
light-coloured limousine pulled up outside. A tall, youngish, dark-haired man with a
scar on his left cheek alighted and entered the café, extending his hand over the
bar.
‘Hello, Louis.’
‘Hello, Eugène.’
Maigret had a direct view of Louis, and
he could see the newcomer’s reflection in the mirror.
‘A mint-soda, Lucien. And make it
quick.’
He was one of the
belote
players, probably the owner of a brothel in Béziers that Fernande had mentioned. He
wore a silk shirt and his clothes were well tailored. He too smelled fragrant.
‘Have you seen the—’
He broke off
mid-sentence. Louis had signalled to him that someone was eavesdropping and Eugène
looked up at Maigret’s reflection.
‘Hmm! Where’s that iced
soda, Lucien?’
He took a cigarette from a monogrammed
case, and lit it from his lighter.
‘Nice weather, isn’t
it!’ said the owner, with irony, still eyeing Maigret.
‘Nice weather indeed. But
there’s a funny smell in here.’
‘What smell?’
‘Something fishy.’
They both roared with laughter, while
Maigret puffed gently on his pipe.
‘See you later?’ queried
Eugène, extending his hand once again.
He wanted to know if they’d be
meeting up as usual.
‘See you later.’
This conversation galvanized Louis, who
grabbed a dirty cloth and, with a grin, came over to Maigret.
‘May I?’
He wiped the table so clumsily that he
knocked over the glass, spilling the contents on to Maigret’s trousers.
‘Lucien! Bring the gentleman
another glass.’
And, by way of apology:
‘No extra charge!’
Maigret gave a vague smile in
return.
By five o’clock the street lamps
were lit, but it was still light enough outside to identify the customers as they
crossed the road and reached for the door handle.
When Joseph Audiat
walked in, Louis and Maigret looked at each other, as of one accord, and from that
moment it was almost as if they had been exchanging protracted secrets. There was no
need to mention the Floria, or Pepito, or Cageot.
Maigret knew, and Louis knew that he
knew.
‘Evening, Louis!’
Audiat was a short man, dressed in black
from head to foot, with a slightly crooked nose and eyes that darted everywhere. He
walked up to the bar and held his hand out to the blonde cashier, saying:
‘Hello, sweetheart.’
Then to Lucien:
‘A Pernod, young man.’
He talked a lot. He gave the impression
of an actor on stage. But Maigret soon discerned a certain anxiety beneath his
façade. Audiat also had a nervous twitch. As soon as his smile left his lips, he
automatically struggled to recompose it.
‘No one here yet?’
The café was empty. There were only two
customers standing at the bar.
‘Eugène’s been
in.’
The owner
re-enacted the scene he
had played earlier, pointing out Maigret to Audiat who, less diplomatic than Eugène,
swung round, looked Maigret in the eye and spat on the floor.
‘Anything else?’ he
said.
‘Nothing. Did you win?’
‘No. Zilch! I was given a tip that
backfired. I was in witha chance for the third race, but the horse
missed the start. Give me a packet of Gauloises, sweetheart.’
He could not keep still; he kept
shifting from one foot to the other, gesticulating and waggling his head.
‘Can I make a phone
call?’
Louis looked daggers at Maigret.
‘No you can’t. The gentleman
over there
afraid of seeing a certain person walk in.
At that hour, Rue Fontaine was bustling
with everyday activities like any other Paris street. Opposite the bar there was an
Italian grocery where the local housewives came to do their shopping.
‘Waiter! A calvados.’
The lethargic blonde cashier stared at
Maigret with mounting curiosity. Meanwhile, the waiter had intuited that something
was amiss, although he didn’t know what exactly, and he gave the owner
an
occasional wink.
It was just after three when a big,
light-coloured limousine pulled up outside. A tall, youngish, dark-haired man with a
scar on his left cheek alighted and entered the café, extending his hand over the
bar.
‘Hello, Louis.’
‘Hello, Eugène.’
Maigret had a direct view of Louis, and
he could see the newcomer’s reflection in the mirror.
‘A mint-soda, Lucien. And make it
quick.’
He was one of the
belote
players, probably the owner of a brothel in Béziers that Fernande had mentioned. He
wore a silk shirt and his clothes were well tailored. He too smelled fragrant.
‘Have you seen the—’
He broke off
mid-sentence. Louis had signalled to him that someone was eavesdropping and Eugène
looked up at Maigret’s reflection.
‘Hmm! Where’s that iced
soda, Lucien?’
He took a cigarette from a monogrammed
case, and lit it from his lighter.
‘Nice weather, isn’t
it!’ said the owner, with irony, still eyeing Maigret.
‘Nice weather indeed. But
there’s a funny smell in here.’
‘What smell?’
‘Something fishy.’
They both roared with laughter, while
Maigret puffed gently on his pipe.
‘See you later?’ queried
Eugène, extending his hand once again.
He wanted to know if they’d be
meeting up as usual.
‘See you later.’
This conversation galvanized Louis, who
grabbed a dirty cloth and, with a grin, came over to Maigret.
‘May I?’
He wiped the table so clumsily that he
knocked over the glass, spilling the contents on to Maigret’s trousers.
‘Lucien! Bring the gentleman
another glass.’
And, by way of apology:
‘No extra charge!’
Maigret gave a vague smile in
return.
By five o’clock the street lamps
were lit, but it was still light enough outside to identify the customers as they
crossed the road and reached for the door handle.
When Joseph Audiat
walked in, Louis and Maigret looked at each other, as of one accord, and from that
moment it was almost as if they had been exchanging protracted secrets. There was no
need to mention the Floria, or Pepito, or Cageot.
Maigret knew, and Louis knew that he
knew.
‘Evening, Louis!’
Audiat was a short man, dressed in black
from head to foot, with a slightly crooked nose and eyes that darted everywhere. He
walked up to the bar and held his hand out to the blonde cashier, saying:
‘Hello, sweetheart.’
Then to Lucien:
‘A Pernod, young man.’
He talked a lot. He gave the impression
of an actor on stage. But Maigret soon discerned a certain anxiety beneath his
façade. Audiat also had a nervous twitch. As soon as his smile left his lips, he
automatically struggled to recompose it.
‘No one here yet?’
The café was empty. There were only two
customers standing at the bar.
‘Eugène’s been
in.’
The owner
re-enacted the scene he
had played earlier, pointing out Maigret to Audiat who, less diplomatic than Eugène,
swung round, looked Maigret in the eye and spat on the floor.
‘Anything else?’ he
said.
‘Nothing. Did you win?’
‘No. Zilch! I was given a tip that
backfired. I was in witha chance for the third race, but the horse
missed the start. Give me a packet of Gauloises, sweetheart.’
He could not keep still; he kept
shifting from one foot to the other, gesticulating and waggling his head.
‘Can I make a phone
call?’
Louis looked daggers at Maigret.
‘No you can’t. The gentleman
over there
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