Maigret and the Headless Corpse by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon [Simenon, Georges]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Georges Simenon
ISBN: 9780156551441
Publisher: Mariner
Published: 1954-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

6

The String

The truth was that he had not yet made up his mind what to do with her. If anyone but Judge Coméliau had been in charge of the case, things would have been different. He would have been prepared to take a risk. With Coméliau, it was dangerous. Not only was he finicky, a stickler for the rules, scared of public opinion and parliamentary criticism, but he had always mistrusted Maigret’s methods, which he considered unorthodox. It had come to a head-on collision between them more than once in the past.

Maigret was well aware that the Judge had his eye on him, and would not hesitate to hold him responsible if he were to step out of line or if anything, however trivial, should go wrong.

He would have much preferred to leave Madame Calas at the Quai de Valmy until he had a clearer insight into her character, and some clue as to her connection, if any, with the case. He would have posted a man, two men, to watch the bistro. But then Judel had posted a constable outside the tenement in the Faubourg Saint-Martin; and what good had that done? The boy Antoine had got away just the same. And Antoine was just an overgrown kid, with no more sense than a thirteen-year-old. Madame Calas was a different proposition. The newspapers in the kiosks already carried the story of the little café and its possible connection with the crime. At all events, Maigret had seen the name Calas in banner headlines on the front pages. Suppose, for instance, that tomorrow morning the headlines read: “Madame Calas disappears.” He could just imagine his reception on arrival at the Judge’s office.

While pretending to look straight before him, he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She did not seem to notice. She was sitting up very straight, and there was an air of dignity about her. As they drove through the streets, she looked out of the window with interest and curiosity.

Just now she had admitted that she had not worn her street clothes for at least four years. She had not told him what the occasion was on which she had last worn her black dress. Perhaps it was even longer since she had been in the center of town, and seen the crowds thronging the Boulevards.

Since, on account of Coméliau, he was not free to do as he liked, he had had to adopt a different procedure.

As they were approaching the Quai des Orfèvres, he spoke for the first time.

“Are you sure you have nothing to tell me?”

She seemed a little taken aback.

“What about?”

“About your husband.”

She gave a slight shrug, and said confidently:

“I didn’t kill Calas.”

She called him by his surname, as country women and shopkeepers’ wives often call their husbands. But in her case it seemed to Maigret to strike a false note.

“Shall I drive up to the entrance?” the taxi driver turned around to ask.

“If you will.”

The Vicomte was there, at the foot of the great staircase, in company with two other journalists and a number of photographers.

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