Maigret and the Apparition by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Georges Simenon
ISBN: 9780156028387
Google: 0jcCAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0156028387
Goodreads: 140776
Publisher: Mariner
Published: 1963-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 5: The Graffiti

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At that instant something occurred that Maigret could not quite define, a change of tone, or, rather, a sort of shift of gears, as a result of which words, gestures, and attitudes took on a weightier significance. Was this due to the presence of the young woman, still draped in that peculiar garb, or had it something to do with the atmosphere of the room itself?

Logs were burning and crackling in the vast white stone fireplace, and the flames seemed to have an impish life of their own.

The Chief Superintendent now understood why the curtains, which could be seen from the windows of Mari-nette Augier’s apartment, were almost always kept drawn. The studio was walled with glass on two sides, so that light could be let in from one side or the other, according to preference.

The curtains were of thick black hessian, now grayish from frequent washing, and they had shrunk, so that they no longer met in the middle.

The view on one side was of rooftops stretching as far as Saint-Ouen; on the other, with the sails of the Moulin de la Galette in the foreground, almost the whole of Paris could be seen, including the layout of the boulevards, the large open space of the Champs-Elysées, the windings of the River Seine, and the gilded dome of the Invalides.

All Maigret’s senses were alert, but it was not the view that fascinated him. It is difficult for anyone finding himself suddenly in an unfamiliar environment to grasp the whole of it, but Maigret felt that he was on the way to doing so.

Everything impinged on him at the same time, the two bare walls, for instance, painted a harsh white, with the vibrant flames of the fire flickering in the middle of one of them.

Madame Jonker had been working on a painting when the two men had come into the room. Did it not follow, therefore, that there should have been other paintings hanging on the walls? And also, as in any artist’s studio, canvases stacked one against another on the floor? The expanse of polished boards, however, was as bare as the walls.

Next to the easel was a small table, on which stood a box full of tubes of paint.

Another table farther off, a table of white unvarnished wood, the only undistinguished object he had so far seen in that house, was covered with a jumble of pots, cans, bottles, and rags.

The only other furniture in the studio consisted of two antique wardrobes and two chairs, one upright, the other an armchair upholstered in fading brown velvet.

He could sense that something was amiss, though he could not say what. He was very alert, so that he was the more struck by the Dutchman’s next words, addressed to his wife.

“The Chief Superintendent has come not to admire my pictures, but, strange as it may seem, to discuss the subject of jealousy. Apparently, he is surprised to learn that not all women are jealous…”

It sounded a commonplace enough remark in spite of its ironic tone.

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