Friend of Madame Maigret

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

6

Maigret was pushing the revolving door, catching sight of the garlands of lights on the Champs-Élysées, which, in the rain, always made him think of moist eyes; he was about to start walking down to the Rond-Point when he raised his eyebrows. Leaning against a tree trunk, not far from a flower girl who was sheltering from the rain, Janvier was watching him, pathetic, comical, looking as if he were trying to get something across to him.

He walked up to him.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

The inspector indicated a silhouette outlined against one of the few illuminated shop-windows. It was Alfonsi, who seemed intensely interested in a display of luggage.

“He’s following you. So that I have to be following you too.”

“Did he see Liotard, after his visit to the rue de Turenne?”

“No. He phoned him.”

“Call it a day. Do you want me to drop you at home?”

Janvier lived not far out of his way, and in the rue Réaumur.

Alfonsi watched them walk off together, seemed surprised, taken aback, then, as Maigret was hailing a cab, decided to turn back and went off in the direction of the Étoile.

“Anything new?”

“Any amount. Too much, almost.”

“Do you want me to take care of Alfonsi again tomorrow morning?”

“No. Drop in at the office. There’ll probably be plenty of work for everybody.”

When the inspector had got out, Maigret said to the driver:

“Drive through the rue de Turenne.”

It wasn’t late. He vaguely hoped he would see a light at the bookbinder’s. This would have been the ideal time for the long chat with Fernande that he had been hankering after for quite a while.

Because of a gleam of light on the glass door he got out of the cab, but realized that the interior was in darkness, hesitated to knock, set off again in the direction of the Quai des Orfèvres, where Torrence was on duty, and gave him some instructions.

Madame Maigret had just gone to bed when he tiptoed in. As he was undressing in the dark so as not to wake her, she asked:

“The hat?”

“It was bought by Countess Panetti all right.”

“Did you see her?”

“No. But she’s about seventy-five.”

He went to bed in a bad temper, or preoccupied, and it was still raining when he awoke; then he cut himself shaving.

“Are you going on with your investigation?” he asked his wife who, in curlers, was serving his breakfast.

“Is there anything else for me to do?” she inquired seriously.

“I don’t know. Now that you’ve started . . .”

He bought his paper at the corner of the boulevard Voltaire, found no new statement by Philippe Liotard in it, no new challenge. The night porter at Claridge’s had been discreet, for there was no mention of the countess either.

Back at the Quai, Lucas, relieving Torrence, had received his instructions, and the machine was functioning; they were now looking for the Italian countess on the Riviera and in foreign capitals, while inquiries were also being made about the man named Krynker and the maid.

On the bus

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