Maigret And The Death Of A Harbormaster by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-03-17T15:13:02+00:00

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8.

The Mayor’s Inquiry

MAIGRET stood in the middle of the road, his hands thrust in his pockets, his brows wrinkled.

“Worried?” asked Lucas, who knew the signs.

“We’ve got to get inside the darned place somehow,” Maigret growled, after gloomily inspecting the dark façade, window by window.

All were shut fast. There was no way of getting in except by the door, to which Maigret now went. He cocked his head, listened. Then signed to Lucas to keep still. Both pressed their ears to the smooth oak panels.

There was no talking. But from the study came a sound of heavy footsteps, and a dull, persistent thudding. It seemed unlikely that a fight was going on. The thuds were much too regular. When two men are fighting in a room, one expects to hear scuffling, furniture banged about, blows being dealt sometimes in quick succession, sometimes spaced out.

This was more of a steady pounding—like a pile-driver at work. By listening intently they could even hear the panting of the man who was delivering the blows.

A grunt at every stroke, followed by a stifled groan.

Maigret’s eyes met the sergeant’s. He pointed to the lock. Lucas drew a bunch of skeleton-keys from his pocket.

“Not a sound,” Maigret whispered.

Silence had fallen in the house. An ominous lull. No more thuds. No footsteps. Only a faint, almost inaudible sound of gasping, as of a man who is out of breath.

Lucas straightened up. The door was open. On the left a ray of light came from the study door. Maigret shrugged his shoulders petulantly. He was exceeding his rights, and knew it. What made things worse was that the man whose house he had broken into was no less a personage than the local mayor, and no easy customer at the best of times. Still, it had to be done…

From the hall he could still hear only one man’s breathing. Nothing stirred. Lucas fingered his revolver. Maigret flung the door open.

Then he stopped dead, for once completely flabbergasted. Perhaps he’d expected to be confronted by another crime. Very different was the scene before him—different and baffling to a degree.

His lip split, chin and dressing-gown streaming with blood, his hair disheveled, Monsieur Grandmaison looked like a boxer who has just struggled to his feet after severe punishment. He could hardly stand. Propped against the mantelpiece, he was leaning so far back that it was a mystery how he kept his footing on the polished floor.

Two yards away stood Louis, looking more ruffianly than ever, blood on his still clenched fists—the mayor’s blood!

It was Louis they had heard panting when they were in the hall. Out of breath, no doubt, after the hammering he had given his victim. The glasses on the table had been upset. His breath reeked of alcohol.

The two police officers were so taken aback, the others so exhausted, that some minutes passed before a word was spoken.

Then Monsieur Grandmaison dabbed his lips with a corner of his dressing-gown, made an effort to pull himself erect, and

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