Maigret and The Enigmatic Lett by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-03-17T15:12:50+00:00

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Chapter 9

Oswald Oppenheim’s Return

Maigret had been sitting still for two hours. When he tried to stand up he could scarcely move his arms, and he had to ring for Jean to help him on with his coat.

“Get a taxi for me.”

A few minutes later he walked into Dr Lecourbe’s house in the rue Monsieur-le-Prince. There were six people in the waiting-room, but he was taken round, through the flat, and as soon as the consulting room was free he went in.

It was an hour before he came out again. He was carrying himself more stiffly than before, and the rings round his eyes had darkened so much that his whole expression had altered, as though he had made up his face.

“Rue du Roi-de-Sicile. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

From a distance he saw his two inspectors patrolling outside the hotel. He got out of the taxi and joined them.

“He’s not come out?”

“No. One or the other of us has been here all the time.”

“Who has left the hotel?”

“A little bent-up old man, and then two young chaps, and then a woman of about thirty…”

Maigret asked, with a shrug and a sigh:

“Had the old man got a beard?”

“Yes…”

He left them without a word, and went up the narrow staircase and past the lodge. A moment later he was rattling the door of Room 32. A woman’s voice replied in an unknown language. The door gave way, and he saw Anna Gorskin getting out of bed, half naked.

“Where’s your boy-friend?” he demanded.

He spoke curtly, like a man in a hurry, not bothering to look round the place.

“Get out!… You have no right!…” shouted the woman.

But he, impassive, bent to pick up the familiar trench-coat from the floor. He seemed to be looking for something else. He saw Fédor Yurovich’s greyish trousers at the foot of the bed.

There were no man’s shoes in the room, however.

Anna, who was struggling into her dressing-gown, stared at him ferociously.

“You think because we’re foreigners…”

He did not wait for her burst of rage. He went out calmly, closing the door, which she reopened before he had gone down one flight of stairs. She stood on the landing, breathing heavily, without a word. She leant over the banisters to watch him, and suddenly, unable to restrain her irresistible urge to do something, anything, she spat.

The spittle fell with a soft splash, missing him by a couple of inches.

“Well?…” asked Inspector Dufour.

“Watch the woman. She won’t be able to disguise herself as an old man…”

“You mean to say that?…”

Oh no—he didn’t mean to say anything! He was in no mood for argument. He got back into his taxi.

“The Majestic.”

Uneasy and humiliated, the inspector watched him go.

“Do what you can!” called Maigret.

He didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings, either. It wasn’t his fault that he had been tricked. Hadn’t Maigret himself allowed Torrence to be killed?

The manager was waiting for him at the entrance, which indicated an entirely new attitude.

“Well… You understand… I don’t know what to do

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