The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon Page A

at the café, after work . . . Prosper was Mimi’s lover . . .”
    â€œHe was besotted, he was so much in love with her . . . Poor Prosper! . . . And afterwards, when she . . .”
    She sat up suddenly, suspicious: “Is it true that you’re a friend of Prosper’s?”
    â€œWhen she had a baby, you mean? . . .”
    â€œWho told you that? I was the only person she wrote to about it . . . But it didn’t start like that . . .”
    She was listening to the music, which was drawing nearer once more.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œNothing . . .”
    The flower-decked wagons filing along the Croisette as guns were fired to announce the start. The blazing sun, calm sea, motorboats cutting circles through the water and small yachts gracefully swooping . . .
    â€œAre you sure you haven’t got any? . . . You won’t go and ask Jean for some? . . .”
    â€œIt began when she left with the American?”
    â€œDid Prosper tell you that? . . . Give me another glass of water, there’s a good bloke . . . A Yank she met at the Belle Étoile, who fell in love with her . . . He took her to Deauville, then Biarritz . . . I must admit Mimi knew how to do things properly . . . She wasn’t like the rest of us . . . Is Charlotte still working at the Pélican? . . . And look at me! . . .”
    She gave a dreadful laugh, disclosing villainous teeth.
    â€œOne day, she just wrote that she was going to have a baby and that she was going to make the American think it was his . . . What was he called now? . . . Oswald. Then she wrote again to tell me that it nearly went wrong because the baby had hair the colour of a carrot . . . Can you imagine it! I wouldn’t want Prosper to know that . . .”
    Was it the effect of the two glasses of water she had drunk? She pulled one leg after the other out of bed, long, thin legs which would attract few male glances. When she was standing upright, she appeared tall, skeleton-like. What long hours she must spend pacing up and down the dark pavements or loitering at a café table before she got any results . . .
    Her stare became more fixed. She examined Maigret from head to toe.
    â€œYou’re from the police, eh?”
    She was getting angry. But her mind was still cloudy and she was making an effort to clear her thoughts.
    â€œWhat did Jean tell me? . . . Ah! . . . And who brought you here anyway? . . . He made me promise not to talk to anyone . . . Admit it! . . . Admit you’re from the police . . . And I . . . Why should it matter to the police, if Prosper and Mimi . . .”
    The storm broke, suddenly, violently, sickeningly: “You dirty bastard! . . . Swine! . . . You took advantage of me being . . .”
    She had opened the door, and the sounds from outside could be heard even more clearly.
    â€œIf you don’t get out at once, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
    It was ridiculous, pathetic. Maigret just managed to sidestep the jug she threw at his legs, and she was still hurling abuse after him as he went down the stairs.
    The bar was empty. It was too early still.
    â€œWell?” Monsieur Jean asked, from behind his counter.
    Maigret put on his coat and hat, and left a tip for the waiter.
    â€œDid she tell you what you wanted?”
    A voice, from the stairs: “Jean! . . . Jean! . . . Come here—I must tell you . . .”
    It was poor wretched Gigi, who had padded down in her stockings and now pushed a dishevelled head round the door of the bar.
    Maigret thought it better to leave.
    On the Croisette, in his black coat and bowler hat, he must have looked like a provincial come to see the carnival on the Côte d’Azur for the first time. Masked figures bumped into him. He had difficulty disentangling himself from the brass bands. On the beach, a few winter visitors ignored the festival and were sunbathing: their near-naked bodies already brown, covered with oil . . .
    The Miramar was