Maigret and the Saturday Caller by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Georges Simenon
ISBN: 9780156551755
Google: Eup8PwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0156028425
Barnesnoble: 0156028425
Goodreads: 44161
Publisher: Harvest
Published: 1962-10-31T11:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 5

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Planchon’s wife had not asked him to take off his coat, so Maigret had remained nearly an hour bundled up in the overheated house. Out now in the fine drizzle, which seemed to be composed of invisible ice crystals, the cold gripped him. Ever since his Sunday walk in this district, he had felt a cold coming on. Now, this gave him the idea of turning left toward Place des Abbesses, instead of going down Rue Lepic to find a taxi on Place Blanche.

This was toward where the decorator had telephoned him from on Monday evening. It was the last time they had been in touch.

Place des Abbesses, with its Métro station, the Theatre de l’Atelier, which looked like a toy or a stage set, and its bistros and small shops, seemed to Maigret to be far more genuine working-class Montmartre than Place du Tertre, which had become a tourist trap. He remembered that when he had first discovered Place du Tertre, shortly after his arrival in Paris, one chilly morning in spring sunshine, he had felt that he had been transported into a picture by Utrillo.

The place, when he reached it, was swarming with ordinary people, people from the surrounding area, coming and going. It was like a big town on market day, and it was also as if there were some family link between all these people, as in a village.

He knew from experience that some of the older ones had never set foot outside the neighborhood, and that there were still shops that had been handed down from father to son for several generations.

He looked through the windows of several bistros before he noticed, on a tobacco counter in a café, a small cash register, which seemed new.

Remembering the noises he had heard during his conversation with Planchon, he went in.

It was nice and warm inside, with a homey smell of wine and cooking. The tables, seven or eight at the most, were covered with paper tablecloths, and a slate announced that there were sausages and mashed potatoes for lunch.

Two workmen in overalls were already eating at the far end. The proprietress, dressed in black, was sitting at a desk against a background of cigarettes, cigars, and lottery tickets. A man with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, wearing a blue apron, was serving wine and apéritifs at the bar.

There were about ten people drinking, and they all turned to look at him. After a fairly long silence, they started talking again.

“A hot toddy,” he ordered.

Madame Maigret had confirmed that his voice was a different pitch from normal. He would probably become hoarse.

“Lemon?”

“Yes, please.”

At the far end, near the kitchen, he could see a telephone booth with a glass door.

“Excuse me. Do you have a customer with a harelip?”

He knew that his neighbors were listening, even those with their backs to him. He was almost sure they had guessed that he was from the police.

“A harelip,” repeated the man in shirtsleeves. He had put the rum toddy down on the bar and was pouring wine from one bottle into another.

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