Maigret and the Wine Merchant by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Georges Simenon
ISBN: 9780156028448
Google: RlGcAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1579125794
Barnesnoble: 1579125794
Publisher: Harvest
Published: 1969-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Five

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They did not go to the movies after all, as Maigret had planned. The day started with a torrent of rain that beat down on the almost deserted sidewalks of the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, and by ten o’clock the wind had risen and was blowing in fitful gusts. There were very few people about, only one or two intrepid, black-clad men and women with umbrellas, hugging the walls of the buildings for shelter, on their way to or from Mass.

It was about ten o’clock, too, when the Chief Superintendent started to get dressed, which was most unusual for him. Up to now he had sat about in his pajamas and dressing gown, doing nothing in particular.

His temperature was up again. It was nothing much, just over 100°, but enough to make him feel rather limp and listless. Madame Maigret naturally took advantage of this to make a bit of a fuss over him, and every time she did some little thing for him he scowled with feigned displeasure.

“What are we having for lunch?”

“Roast beef, with braised celery and mashed potatoes.”

The Sunday roast. It reminded him of his childhood, except that in those days he had liked his meat well done. There were several little things that day that brought back memories of his childhood.

Safe and warm together in the apartment, they watched the rain beating down. Just before lunch Maigret murmured a little hesitantly, “I feel like an apéritif, a small glass of sloe gin, I think.”

She did not attempt to dissuade him. He went over to the sideboard, where, besides the sloe gin, there was a bottle of raspberry liqueur, both from his sister-in-law in Alsace. The raspberry liqueur won. It was deliciously fragrant, and it needed only a sip for the flavor to linger on the palate for as long as half an hour.

“Won’t you have a drop?”

“No. You know very well it puts me to sleep.”

Appetizing smells were coming from the kitchen, though his nostrils were less sensitive than usual, on account of his cold. He glanced through one or two weeklies, which he never had time to read except on Sundays.

“It’s interesting, you know, in some walks of life the ordinary rules of decent conduct seem to have vanished altogether…”

She did not need to ask what he was referring to. He was still, in spite of everything, in spite of himself, absorbed in the Chabut case, and at intervals throughout the day he reverted to it.

“When you have a hundred or more people, all with more or less sound reasons for wishing a man dead…”

He was haunted by the thought of the little man with the limp, who was so skillful at getting lost in a crowd, and who always seemed to be lurking in wait for Maigret, wherever he went. Who was he?

He took his afternoon nap in his armchair. He woke to find his wife busy with some sewing. She never could bear to sit doing nothing.

“I slept longer than I intended.

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