The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon Page B

down there, a vast yellow structure with two or three hundred windows, with its doorman, car attendants and touts . . . He nearly went in . . . But what was the use?
    Didn’t he already know everything he needed to know? He no longer knew if he was thirsty or drunk. He went into a bar.
    â€œHave you got a railway timetable?”
    â€œTrains to Paris? There’s an express—first, second and third class—at 20:40 hours . . .”
    He drank another half litre. There were hours to fill in. He couldn’t think what to do. And later, he had nightmare memories of those hours spent in Cannes, amidst the carnival.
    At times, the past became so real to him that he could literally see Prosper, with his red hair, great candid eyes, pitted skin, coming out of the Miramar by the little back door and hurrying across to the Brasserie des Artistes.
    The three women, who would be eight years younger then, would be there having lunch or dinner. Prosper was ugly. He knew it. And he was passionately in love with Mimi, the youngest, and prettiest, of the three.
    His burning glances must have made them laugh heartlessly, at first.
    â€œYou shouldn’t, Mimi,” Charlotte must have intervened. “He’s a good sort. You never know how it may turn out . . .”
    Then the Belle Étoile, in the evening. Prosper never set foot inside. He knew his place. But he met them in the early morning to eat onion soup at the café . . .
    â€œIf a man like that loved me, I would . . .”
    Charlotte must have been impressed by his humble devotion. And Gigi wasn’t yet on cocaine.
    â€œDon’t take any notice, Monsieur Prosper! . . . She pretends to make fun of you, but at heart . . .”
    And they had been lovers! Had lived together perhaps. Prosper spent most of his savings on presents. Until the day when a passing American . . .
    Had Charlotte told him, later, that the child was definitely his?
    Good, kind Charlotte—she knew he didn’t love her, that he still loved Mimi, and yet she was living with him, happily, in their little house in Saint-Cloud.
    While Gigi slipped farther and farther . . .
    â€œSome flowers, monsieur? . . . To send to your little girlfriend . . .”
    The flowerseller spoke ironically, because Maigret didn’t look like a man who has a little girlfriend. But he sent a basket of mimosa to Madame Maigret.
    Then, as he still had half an hour before the train left, a kind of intuition made him telephone Paris. He was in a little bar near the station. The musicians from the bands now had dusty trousers. Whole carriage-loads of them were leaving for nearby stations, and the fine Sunday afternoon was drawing drowsily to a close.
    â€œHello! Is that you, chief? . . . You’re still in Cannes?”
    He could tell from Lucas’s voice that he was excited.
    â€œThings have been happening here . . . The examining magistrate is furious . . . He’s just telephoned to know what you are doing . . . Hello? They made the discovery only threequarters of an hour ago . . . It was Torrence, who was on duty at the Majestic, who telephoned . . .”
    Maigret stood listening to his account in the narrow booth, and grunted from time to time. Through the window, he could see, in the light from the setting sun which filled the bar, the musicians in their white linen trousers and silver-braided caps, and now and then one of them would jokingly sound a long note on his bombardon or trombone, while the golden liquid sparkled in their glasses.
    â€œRight! . . . I’ll be there tomorrow morning . . . No! Of course . . . Well if the magistrate insists, you’ll have to arrest him . . .”
    It had only just happened, then. Downstairs at the Majestic . . . Thé dansant time, with music drifting along the passageways . . . Prosper Donge like a great goldfish in his glass cage . . . Jean Ramuel, yellow as a quince, in his . . .
    From what Lucas said—but the inquiry had