the
Southern Cross
, whose portholes were all lit up.
Now, suddenly, the inspector was dragged from a dream so confused that even as he opened his eyes he could remember nothing of it. Someone was knocking urgently on his door, and a voice was calling in a panic:
âInspector! Inspector! Come quickly! My father â¦â
He ran to the door in his pyjamas and opened it. Outside he was surprised to see the landlordâs daughter looking distraught. She leaped on him and literally buried herself in his arms.
âAh! â¦Â You must go, hurry! â¦Â No, stay here! â¦Â Donât leave me by myself! â¦Â I couldnât bear it! â¦Â Iâm scared! â¦â
He had never paid much attention to her. Heâd thought she was a sturdy girl, well upholstered, but without a nerve in her body.
And here she was, face convulsed, heaving for breath,
hanging on to him with an insistence that was embarrassing. Still trying to extricate himself, he moved towards the window and opened it.
It was probably about six in the morning. It was barely first light and cold as a winter dawn.
A hundred metres beyond the
Southern Cross
, in the direction of the stone bridge and the Ãpernay road, four or five men were using a heavy boat hook to fish out something floating in the water, while one of the barge men untied his
dinghy and began rowing across.
Maigretâs pyjamas had seen better days. He threw his overcoat over his shoulders, located his ankle boots and inserted his bare feet into them.
âYou realize â¦Â Itâs
him
! â¦Â Theyâve â¦â
With a sudden movement, he broke free of the clutches of this strange girl, hurried down the stairs and was going outside just as a woman carrying a baby in her arms was bearing down on the group.
He hadnât been there when Mary Lampsonâs body had been found. But this new discovery was if anything more grim because, as an effect of this recurrence of crime, a feeling of almost mystical anguish now hung over this stretch of the
canal.
The men called to each other. The landlord of the Café de la Marine, who had been first to spot a body floating in the water, was directing operations.
Twice the boat hook had snagged the corpse and each time the metal end had slipped. Each time, the body had dipped a few centimetres before returning to the surface.
Maigret had already recognized Willyâs dark suit. He
could not see the face because the head, being heavier, remained submerged.
The man in the dinghy suddenly nudged it, grabbed the body by the chest and raised it with one hand. But he had to haul it over the side of the boat.
The man was not squeamish. He lifted the legs one after the other, threw his mooring rope on to the bank then wiped his streaming forehead with the back of his hand.
For one moment, Maigret had a glimpse of Vladimirâs sleep-dulled head appearing through a hatch on the yacht. The Russian rubbed his eyes. Then he vanished.
âDonât touch anything!â
Behind him, one of the men protested, saying that back in Alsace his brother-in-law had been revived after being in the water for nearly three hours.
The landlord of the café pointed to the corpseâs throat. There was no doubt: two finger marks, black, just like the ones on the neck of Mary Lampson.
This death was the more shocking of the two. Willyâs eyes were wide open, looking much, much larger than usual. His right hand was still clutching a handful of reeds.
Maigret suddenly sensed an unexpected presence behind him. He turned and saw the colonel, also in pyjamas with a silk dressing gown thrown over them and blue kid slippers on his feet.
His silver hair was dishevelled and his face slightly puffy. He was a strange sight dressed like that, surrounded by canal men wearing clogs and thick coarse clothes, in the mud and damp of the early morning.
He was the tallest and broadest
Southern Cross
, whose portholes were all lit up.
Now, suddenly, the inspector was dragged from a dream so confused that even as he opened his eyes he could remember nothing of it. Someone was knocking urgently on his door, and a voice was calling in a panic:
âInspector! Inspector! Come quickly! My father â¦â
He ran to the door in his pyjamas and opened it. Outside he was surprised to see the landlordâs daughter looking distraught. She leaped on him and literally buried herself in his arms.
âAh! â¦Â You must go, hurry! â¦Â No, stay here! â¦Â Donât leave me by myself! â¦Â I couldnât bear it! â¦Â Iâm scared! â¦â
He had never paid much attention to her. Heâd thought she was a sturdy girl, well upholstered, but without a nerve in her body.
And here she was, face convulsed, heaving for breath,
hanging on to him with an insistence that was embarrassing. Still trying to extricate himself, he moved towards the window and opened it.
It was probably about six in the morning. It was barely first light and cold as a winter dawn.
A hundred metres beyond the
Southern Cross
, in the direction of the stone bridge and the Ãpernay road, four or five men were using a heavy boat hook to fish out something floating in the water, while one of the barge men untied his
dinghy and began rowing across.
Maigretâs pyjamas had seen better days. He threw his overcoat over his shoulders, located his ankle boots and inserted his bare feet into them.
âYou realize â¦Â Itâs
him
! â¦Â Theyâve â¦â
With a sudden movement, he broke free of the clutches of this strange girl, hurried down the stairs and was going outside just as a woman carrying a baby in her arms was bearing down on the group.
He hadnât been there when Mary Lampsonâs body had been found. But this new discovery was if anything more grim because, as an effect of this recurrence of crime, a feeling of almost mystical anguish now hung over this stretch of the
canal.
The men called to each other. The landlord of the Café de la Marine, who had been first to spot a body floating in the water, was directing operations.
Twice the boat hook had snagged the corpse and each time the metal end had slipped. Each time, the body had dipped a few centimetres before returning to the surface.
Maigret had already recognized Willyâs dark suit. He
could not see the face because the head, being heavier, remained submerged.
The man in the dinghy suddenly nudged it, grabbed the body by the chest and raised it with one hand. But he had to haul it over the side of the boat.
The man was not squeamish. He lifted the legs one after the other, threw his mooring rope on to the bank then wiped his streaming forehead with the back of his hand.
For one moment, Maigret had a glimpse of Vladimirâs sleep-dulled head appearing through a hatch on the yacht. The Russian rubbed his eyes. Then he vanished.
âDonât touch anything!â
Behind him, one of the men protested, saying that back in Alsace his brother-in-law had been revived after being in the water for nearly three hours.
The landlord of the café pointed to the corpseâs throat. There was no doubt: two finger marks, black, just like the ones on the neck of Mary Lampson.
This death was the more shocking of the two. Willyâs eyes were wide open, looking much, much larger than usual. His right hand was still clutching a handful of reeds.
Maigret suddenly sensed an unexpected presence behind him. He turned and saw the colonel, also in pyjamas with a silk dressing gown thrown over them and blue kid slippers on his feet.
His silver hair was dishevelled and his face slightly puffy. He was a strange sight dressed like that, surrounded by canal men wearing clogs and thick coarse clothes, in the mud and damp of the early morning.
He was the tallest and broadest
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