The Flemish House by Georges Simenon & Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside

Author:Georges Simenon & Georges Simenon; Translated by Shaun Whiteside
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2013-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

7. A Three-Hour Gap

When Maigret arrived at his hotel for lunch, the landlord told him the postman had turned up with a recorded delivery letter at his address but hadn’t wanted to leave it.

It was like a signal for a thousand petty concerns to get together and start harassing a man. As soon as he sat down, the inspector asked after his colleague. No one had seen him. He had them call his hotel. He was told that he had left half an hour before.

It didn’t matter. Maigret didn’t even have the power to give instructions to Machère. But he would have liked to suggest that he keep an eye on the bargeman.

At two o’clock he was at the post office, where he was handed the recorded delivery letter. It was a silly story. Some furniture he had bought and refused to pay for because it wasn’t what he’d ordered. The supplier had sent him a formal demand.

He had to spend half an hour writing his reply, then a letter to his wife to give her instructions on the subject.

No sooner had he finished than he was called to the phone. It was the head of the Police Judiciaire asking him when he would be back and requesting that he send some details about two or three cases currently under way.

Outside, it was still raining. The café floor was covered with sawdust. There was no one there at that time of day, and the waiter was taking advantage of the fact to get on with his own correspondence.

One ridiculous little detail: Maigret hated writing on marble tables, and there were no others.

‘Please call the Hôtel de la Gare and find out if anyone’s seen the inspector.’

Maigret was in a vaguely bad mood, all the more aggravating because it had no serious cause. Two or three times he went and pressed his forehead against the misted window. The sky was becoming a little clearer, the drops of rain less frequent. But the muddy quay was still deserted.

At about four o’clock he heard a blast from a whistle. He ran to the door and saw a tug, belching out thick steam for the first time since the spate had begun.

The current was still violent. When the tug, slender and light, a thoroughbred in comparison with the barges, came away from the shore, it literally reared up, and for a moment looked as if it was going to be dragged away by the flood.

A new whistle-blast, more strident this time. And it turned into the current. A cable stretched behind it. A first barge broke away from the block of waiting boats and drifted across the Meuse as two men pulled with all their might on the helm.

In the doorways of the cafés, customers had gathered to witness the manoeuvre, which took no more than six minutes. Two or three barges entered the struggle in turn, formed a semi-circle and suddenly, at the sound of a whistle, vibrant with pride, the tug set off towards Belgium, while the barges behind it did their best to stay in a straight line.

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