A Maigret Christmas by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780141984278
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2017-10-13T16:00:00+00:00

Without saying a word, André Lecœur handed the paper to the inspector, who turned it over several times between his fingers.

‘Why Bott?’

‘It’s what I call him when we’re by ourselves. Not in front of other people, because that would make him feel awkward. It’s short for bottle and goes back to when I used to feed him with a bottle.’

He spoke in a neutral voice, with no accent, and probably without seeing anything around him except a kind of fog in which vague shapes moved to and fro.

‘Who is Uncle Gideon?’

‘There’s no such person.’

Was he not aware that he was talking to the head of the Murder Squad, who was personally conducting a criminal investigation?

His brother explained:

‘More accurately, someone who no longer exists. He was one of our mother’s brothers. His name was Gideon. He went to America when he was very young.’

Olivier gave him a look which seemed to say:

‘Why are you going on about that?’

‘In the family, we got into the habit of saying for a joke: “One day Uncle Gideon will leave us a fortune.” ’

‘Was he rich?’

‘We had no idea. We never heard from him, just a postcard every New Year signed “Gideon”.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes, when Bott was four.’

‘Do you think this is helping, André?’ said Olivier.

‘We’re looking. Leave this to me. My brother has carried on the family tradition by telling his son about Uncle Gideon. He turned into a kind of character from a legend. Every day, before he went to sleep, the boy would ask for a story about Uncle Gideon, who had all sorts of made-up adventures. Naturally, he was fabulously rich and when he returned …’

‘I think I understand. And he really is dead?’

‘Died in hospital, in Cleveland, where he washed dishes in a restaurant. We never told the boy. We just carried on with the story.’

‘Did he believe it?’

The boy’s father intervened timidly. He came pretty close to putting his hand up, the way pupils do in class.

‘My brother reckons he didn’t,’ he said, ‘that François had guessed the truth, that it was only a game. But I think the opposite, I’m almost certain he still believed it. When other kids told him that there is no Father Christmas, he went on denying it for two years.’

As he talked about his son, he grew animated and became a quite different person.

‘I can’t understand why he should have written me that note. I asked the concierge if a telegram had arrived. For a moment I thought André was having us on. Why on earth would François go out at six in the morning leaving a note saying I should rush off to Gare d’Austerlitz? I went there half out of my mind with worry. I looked everywhere. I kept expecting to see him arrive. Tell me, André, are you sure you …?’

But André was keeping an eye on the map on the wall and his switchboard. Every disaster, every accident that happened in Paris invariably ended up there.

‘They haven’t found him,’ said Lecœur.

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