The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon

Charlotte’s a good sort . . . She telephones her friends to ask their help, but forgets to tell them what it’s about . . . So if one has a business like yours, if one’s already been in a spot of trouble once or twice, one generally doesn’t want to become incriminated . . . Well—I’ll telephone the vice squad and I’m sure they won’t have any difficulty telling me where I can find Gigi . . . Have you got a token?”
    He had got up, begun walking towards the telephone booth.
    â€œExcuse me! You spoke of becoming incriminated . . . Is it serious?”
    â€œWell, a murder’s involved . . . if a superintendent from the special squad comes down from Paris, you can take it . . .”
    â€œJust a minute, superintendent . . . Do you really want to see Gigi?”
    â€œI’ve come more than a thousand kilometres to do so . . .”
    â€œCome with me then! But I must warn you that she won’t be able to tell you very much . . . Do you know her? . . . She’s useless for two days out of three . . . When she’s found some dope, I mean, if you get me? . . . Well, yesterday . . .”
    â€œYesterday, it so happened that, after Charlotte’s telephone call, she found some, didn’t she? Where is she?”
    â€œThis way . . . She’s got a room somewhere in town, but last night she was incapable of walking . . .”
    A door led to the staircase of the hotel. The proprietor pointed to a room on the landing.
    â€œSomeone for you, Gigi!” he shouted.
    And he waited at the top of the stairs until Maigret had shut the door. Then went back to his counter, shrugged, and picked up his newspaper, looking a little worried despite himself.
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    The closed curtains let in only a luminous glow. The room was in a mess. A woman lay on the iron bed, with her clothes on, her hair awry, her face buried in the pillow. She began asking in a thick voice: “. . . d’you want?”
    Then a very bleary eye appeared.
    â€œ. . . been here before?”
    Pinched nostrils. A wax-like complexion. Gigi was thin, angular, brown as a prune.
    â€œ. . . time is it? . . . Aren’t you going to get undressed? . . .” She propped herself up on one elbow to drink some water, and stared at Maigret, making a visible effort to pull herself together, and, seeing him sitting gravely on a chair by her bed, asked: “You the doctor? . . .”
    â€œWhat did Monsieur Jean tell you, last night?”
    â€œJean? . . . Jean’s all right . . . He gave me . . . But what business is it of yours?”
    â€œYes, I know. He gave you some snow . . . Lie down again . . . And he spoke to you about Mimi and Prosper.”
    The bands still blaring outside, coming closer and then dying away, and still the stale scent of mimosa, with its own indefinable smell.
    â€œGood old Prosper! . . .”
    She spoke as if she were half asleep. Her voice occasionally took on a childish note. Then she suddenly screwed up her eyes and her brow became furrowed as if she were in violent pain. Her mouth was slack.
    â€œYou got some, then?”
    She wanted some more of the drug. And Maigret had the unpleasant feeling that he was extracting secrets from someone who was sick and delirious.
    â€œYou were fond of Prosper, weren’t you?”
    â€œ. . . He’s not like other people . . . He’s too good . . . He shouldn’t have fallen for a woman like Mimi, but that’s always the way . . . Do you know him?”
    Come on now! Make an effort. Wasn’t that what he, Maigret, was there for?
    â€œIt was when he was at the Miramar, wasn’t it? . . . There were three of you dancing at the Belle Étoile . . . Mimi, Charlotte and you . . .”
    She stuttered solemnly: “You mustn’t say unkind things about Charlotte . . . She’s a good girl . . . And she was in love with Prosper . . . If he’d listened to me . . .”
    â€œI suppose you met