My Friend Maigret by Georges Simenon

must have been as ironical as his good education allowed. Hadn’t Maigret blushed? At any rate he was conscious of being perfectly ridiculous.
    For the fact was that he had on this occasion played the moral reformer. After sending Marcellin to prison, he had turned his attention to Ginette and, just as might happen in a popular novel, had “snatched her from the gutter” to have her put into a sanatorium.
    He saw her again clearly, so thin that one wondered how men could allow themselves to be tempted, with feverish eyes and slack mouth.
    He said to her:
    â€œYou must have treatment, my girl.”
    And she answered, docilely:
    â€œI’m quite willing, chief inspector. Don’t think I enjoy it!”
    With a touch of impatience, Maigret now asked, looking Monsieur Émile straight in the face:
    â€œYou’re sure it’s the same woman? At that time she was riddled with consumption.”
    â€œShe kept up her cure for a few years.”
    â€œDid she stay with Marcellin?”
    â€œShe hardly saw him, you know. She’s very busy. She sent him a money order from time to time. Not large sums. He didn’t need them.”
    Monsieur Émile took a eucalyptus pill from a small box, and sucked it gravely.
    â€œUsed he to go and see her in Nice?”
    â€œI don’t think so. It’s a high-class establishment. You probably know it.”
    â€œWas it because of her that Marcellin came to the Midi?”
    â€œI don’t know. He was a queer fish.”
    â€œIs Ginette in Nice at the moment?”
    â€œShe rang us up from Hyères this morning. She saw what happened from the papers. She’s in Hyères seeing to the funeral.”
    â€œDo you know where she’s staying?”
    â€œAt the Hôtel des Palmes.”
    â€œYou were at the Arche the evening of the murder?”
    â€œI went there for my tisane.”
    â€œDid you leave before Marcellin?”
    â€œCertainly. I never go to bed after ten o’clock.”
    â€œDid you hear him speaking of me?”
    â€œPerhaps. I paid no attention. I’m a bit hard of hearing.”
    â€œWhat are your relations like with Charlot?”
    â€œI know him, but I don’t see a lot of him.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Monsieur Émile was visibly striving to explain a delicate matter.
    â€œWe don’t move in the same circles, if you see what I mean?”
    â€œHe’s never worked for your mother?”
    â€œHe may once or twice have found staff for her.”
    â€œHas he been going straight?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œDid Marcellin find people for you too?”
    â€œNo. He didn’t go in for that.”
    â€œYou know nothing?”
    â€œNothing at all. I hardly concern myself with business matters any longer. My health won’t allow me.”
    What was Mr. Pyke thinking of all this? Are there Monsieur Émiles in England as well?
    â€œI think I might go and have a chat with your mother.”
    â€œYou’ll be very welcome, inspector.”
    Lechat was outside, this time in the company of a young man in white flannel trousers, a blue striped blazer, and a yachting cap.
    â€œMonsieur Philippe de Moricourt,” he announced. “He was just landing with the dinghy.”
    â€œYou wish to speak to me, inspector?”
    He was in his thirties, and, contrary to what one might have expected, he wasn’t even good-looking.
    â€œI presume this is mere formality?”
    â€œSit down.”
    â€œIs it essential? I loathe sitting down.”
    â€œStay standing up then. You’re Mrs. Wilcox’s secretary?”
    â€œA nominal title, of course. Let us say that I am her guest and that, as between friends, I sometimes act as her secretary.”
    â€œIs Mrs. Wilcox writing her memoirs?”
    â€œNo. Why do you ask?”
    â€œDoes she have anything to do with her whisky firm herself?”
    â€œNothing whatever.”
    â€œDo you write her