Maigret's Holiday by Georges Simenon Page B

opened the front door.
    â€˜I have noticed, in any case, that you
haven’t asked me a single question.’
    â€˜What would be the point?’
    And Maigret re-lit his pipe, which he had
put out with his thumb on entering the girl’s apartment.
    As he took leave of his guest, Bellamy was a
little ill at ease. Had this visit disappointed him? Did Maigret’s silence now
make him somewhat anxious?
    Not once had the doctor mentioned his wife
and there had been no question of introducing her to Maigret.
    â€˜I hope, monsieur, that I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you again.’
    â€˜So do I,’ muttered Maigret as
he walked off.
    Maigret was almost pleased
with himself. He puffed on his pipe as he made his way towards the town centre. Then he
looked at the time and retraced his steps, picking up his walk where he should have been
at that hour, passing familiar landmarks: the port, the billowing sails, the smell of
tarmac and heating oil, the boats gliding down the channel and mooring in front of the
fish market.
    Only he turned around to look at every girl
he passed and stared into every open doorway, in the hope of catching sight of the girl
from the staircase.
    She had not been wearing the local costume
of short, black-silk skirts like most of the fishermen’s daughters or the women
who worked in the sardine canneries. And yet she was of a very humble background. Her
dress had been faded, her black woollen stockings darned and her little coloured-bead
bag came from a bazaar or local fair.
    Behind the port there was a warren of narrow
streets which Maigret explored every day. The houses were only one storey high,
sometimes there was just a ground floor. Generally, and this was something he had only
seen in Les Sables d’Olonne, the cellar served as the kitchen, with stone steps
leading up to the street.
    It was highly likely that the girl lived in
this neighbourhood.
    He went into his fishermen’s café
and drank a glass of white wine. Once the door had closed, Doctor Bellamy must have
raced upstairs to join his wife or his mother. Which of the two had he questioned about
the girl’s visit?
    Maigret walked, as he did every day, but
withoutrealizing it he took a detour and found himself outside the
police station. It wasn’t far from the railway station. A train must just have
arrived, because there were people walking past carrying suitcases.
    A couple caught his attention, or rather he
stood there in amazement on seeing a woman who so closely resembled the two portraits in
the doctor’s study that it was uncanny.
    This woman was no longer young. She must
have been getting on for fifty and yet she had the same hair of an ethereal blonde, the
same violet eyes. She was only slightly plumper, while still preserving an extraordinary
lightness.
    The woman wore a white suit and a white hat,
which made her stand out among the shabby crowd in the street. Leaving a trail of
perfume in her wake, she walked quite fast, dragging along a man around fifteen years
her senior who did not look at ease.
    In her hand, she held a very expensive
crocodile-skin attaché-case, while her companion struggled with two suitcases.
    She could be no other than Madame Godreau,
the mother of Odette Bellamy and of Lili.
    They must have sent a telegram to Paris, and
she had hastened here for the funeral.
    Maigret gazed after the pair. There were
several hotels nearby, but they did not go into any of them. Were they going to ring the
bell of the house that Maigret had just left?
    He entered the police station and slowly
climbed the dusty staircase. He had only been here once and he already felt at home.
Without knocking, he pushed open the doorof the inspectors’
office, which was almost deserted, as it had been the previous day. It was past six
o’clock. Chief Inspector Mansuy was busy signing letters.
    â€˜Madame Godreau has arrived,’
announced Maigret, perching on the corner of the