Maigret's War of Nerves by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
ISBN: 9780151555703
Google: Mn96AAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0151555702
Publisher: Harcourt
Published: 1986-03-13T22:00:00+00:00

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8

A Man in the House

Maigret got out of a taxi in front of the Hendersons’ house at Saint-Cloud. It was just past three. After getting back from Nandy, he had remembered that he had never returned the key given him in July when he was making his investigations.

He went there without any precise motive. There was just a chance that he might stumble on some clue that he had so far overlooked. Or perhaps the mere atmosphere of the place might give him an idea.

The house was a substantial though ugly building, flanked by a turret and surrounded by a good-sized rambling garden. The shutters were closed. The garden paths were littered with dead leaves.

Maigret opened the gate and approached the house. He could not help being oppressed by the desolate look of it all. It was more like a cemetery than a place for living people.

Almost reluctantly, he went up the four steps, on either side of which were pretentious plaster figures. A lantern of wrought iron hung over the door. Inside, it took him a moment or two to get used to the semidarkness of the hall.

There was something sordid about this mixture of luxury and decay. The ground floor had not been used for four years, that is to say, ever since Mr. Henderson’s death. Yet most of the furniture, and even the ornaments, had been left just as they were.

When Maigret went into the drawing room, the cut-glass chandelier tinkled in the draft. The parquet floor creaked under his tread.

He switched on the light to see if it was working. A dozen lamps, out of twenty, instantly went on, but so thick was the dust on them that they glowed only dimly.

Valuable rugs had been rolled up and stacked in one corner. The armchairs had all been pushed against the wall. A few trunks were standing around. One was empty; another, smelling strongly of mothballs, contained some of the dead man’s clothes. And it was four years since he’d died!

The place had glittered in his day. In that very room, grand receptions had been given, and the names of the guests had been reported in the papers. On the huge mantelpiece was a half-consumed box of cigars.

The story of its former occupants was written in that room. The past lay there heavy and oppressive.

A couple who had no doubt been happy, who had at any rate led a brilliant social life, with friends in most of the capitals of Europe. Then Mrs. Henderson was widowed at seventy, and too tired to carry on that life alone. Too tired even to move to a smaller house, she had simply shut herself up in her own suite of rooms upstairs, leaving the rest of the house to take care of itself.

Nothing was left of all the brilliance but a sequestered old lady with her maid-companion…

And then one night she was…

Maigret wandered on through two other reception rooms and then through a handsomely furnished dining room. Leaving

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