Maigret and the Old Lady by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Georges Simenon
Google: Xx6SAAAAIAAJ
Amazon: B0000CL9G5
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 1957-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

* * *

VI

« ^ »

Besson was right. Besides Charlie, who was still polishing up, there was only one other person in the bar: it was Théo, who, failing company, was playing poker dice by himself.

Charles moved towards him, happy and proud to be introducing his elder brother, who watched them coming with expressionless eyes and reluctantly got down from his stool.

“Do you know Chief-Inspector Maigret?”

Théo might have said, “Only by name,” or “Like everybody else,” something to indicate that Maigret was not just anybody, but he merely bowed slightly, in a very formal manner, without holding out his hand, and murmured:

“I’m pleased to meet you.”

Seen closer, he looked older, because one could notice some fine wrinkles which looked like tiny cracks. He obviously spent a long time at the hairdresser’s every morning, having an elaborate treatment, probably facial massages, since he had the skin of a coquettish old lady.

“You probably know that, through my intervention and Valentine’s, who went to Paris specially, the chief-inspector has agreed to investigate the case?”

Charles was a little disappointed to see his brother receiving them with the polite coldness of a sovereign on tour.

“We aren’t disturbing you?”

“Not at all.”

“We’ve just spent an hour in the sun on the front, and we’re thirsty, Charlie!”

Charlie gave Maigret a friendly wink.

“What are you drinking, Théo?”

“Scotch.”

“I hate whisky. What will you have, Inspector? A picon-grenadine for me.”

Why did Maigret also decide to have one? He hadn’t drunk it for a long time, and for some mysterious reason it brought back the holiday atmosphere.

“Have you seen Valentine since Sunday?”

“No.”

Théo’s hands were large and well-kept, but pale, with red hairs on them, and a big signet ring. He wasn’t wearing a single article of clothing that could have been bought in an ordinary shop. You could see that he had adopted a style, once and for all. Somebody had impressed him, probably an English aristocrat, and he had studied his gestures, his bearing, his way of dressing, and even the expressions on his face. From time to time, nonchalantly, he would put his hand to his mouth, as if he were going to yawn, but didn’t yawn.

“Are you still staying long at Étretat?”

“I don’t know.”

Charles was none the less making an effort to put his brother in a better light, and was explaining to the chief-inspector:

“He’s a strange fellow. He never knows what he’ll be doing from one day to the next. Without giving any reason, just like that, on his way out of Fouquet’s or Maxim’s, he goes home to pack a bag and takes a plane for Cannes or Chamonix, London or Brussels. Don’t you, Théo?”

Then Maigret attacked directly:

“May I ask you a question, Monsieur Besson? When was your last meeting with Rose?”

Poor Charles looked at both of them, dumbfounded, opened his mouth as if to protest, and seemed to be expecting a violent denial from his elder brother.

But Théo did not deny it. He appeared bored, stared at the bottom of his glass for a moment before lifting his eyes towards the chief-inspector.

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