Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Georges Simenon
ISBN: 9780156551625
Google: MEPVOwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0156551624
Publisher: Lythway P.
Published: 1977-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

"Tell me frankly--did she treat you nicely?"

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Did she treat you like a friend--talk to you quite sincerely?"

"At times, I think. It's difficult to explain."

"Did you begin making love to her right away?"

"I told her I loved her."

"The first evening?"

"No. The first evening my friend was there, and I hardly opened my mouth. It was when I went back there by myself."

"And what did she say?"

"She tried to make out I was only a kid, but I told her I was twenty-four--older than she was.

""It isn't age that matters, my child,"

she retorted. "I'm ever so much older than you!"

"You see, she was very unhappy--in fact, desperate. I think that was why I fell in love with her. She'd laugh and joke, but she was bitter all the time. And sometimes ..."

"Go on."

"I know you think she was fooling me. ...

She'd try to make me stop loving her--she'd talk in a vulgar way on purpose, and use coarse words.

""Why can't you just get into bed with me, like the rest of them? Leave you cold, do I?

I could teach you a lot more than other women. I bet there's not one that has my experience and knows her stuff like I do. ..."

"Oh, I've just remembered, she added:

"I got my training in the right school.""

"Were you never tempted to try?"

"I wanted her. I could have screamed, sometimes.

But I didn't want her like that. It would have spoilt everything, you understand?"

"I understand. And what did she say when you urged her to drop that kind of life?"

"She'd laugh, call me her little shrimp and begin to drink harder than ever, and I'm sure it was because she was desperate. You haven't found the man?"

"What man?"

"The one she called Oscar."

"We haven't found anything at all so far.

Now tell me what you did last night."

Lapointe had brought in a thick file. It contained the papers found in the Countess's flat, which he had carefully sorted out; and he had written several pages of notes.

"I've managed to trace practically the whole story of the Countess," he said. "I had a telephone report from the Nice police first thing this morning."

"Tell me about it."

"To begin with, I know her real name--Madeleine Lalande."

"I saw that yesterday on her marriage certificate."

"Oh yes--I'm sorry. She was born at La Roche-sur-Yon, where her mother was a charwoman. Father unknown. She came to Paris to go into service, but within a few months she'd found a man to keep her. She changed lovers several times, doing a bit better with each one, and fifteen years ago she was one of the most beautiful women on the Riviera."

"Was she already taking drugs?"

"I don't know, but there's nothing to suggest it.

She was gambling, always in the casinos. Then she met Count von Farnheim, who came of an old Austrian family and was sixty-five years old at the time. Here are the letters he wrote her; I've arranged them according to date."

"Have you read them all?"

"Yes. He was passionately in love with her.

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