Read Online Cécile is Dead by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page B

she had not
     thought it necessary to exchange her cherry-red hat for one of a darker colour.
    Monsieur Dandurand was also present, among
     four or
five expensively clad gentlemen whose
     fingers were laden with rings and who had arrived in a flashy car with a twelve-cylinder
     engine. The Siveschi family were there too, except for the mother, who wasn’t up
     and dressed yet. Madame Piéchaud the grocer had left Madame Benoit in charge of her shop
     for a moment, giving her time to go upstairs and sprinkle the coffins with holy
     water.
    The funeral director, who was nervous
     because there was to be another burial at eleven o’clock, was not standing with
     any of these distinct groups, but was trying in vain to find out who officially
     represented the family. He was particularly anxious about the photographers. ‘Not
     yet, please, gentlemen. At least wait until everyone is here!’
    It would be terrible if the papers were to
     print a picture of such a disorganized funeral procession!
    Someone pointed out Maigret, who
     didn’t seem to notice. As the biers with the two coffins were being brought
     downstairs, he touched the shoulder of Gérard Pardon, who jumped.
    â€˜Give me a moment, will you?’ he
     whispered, drawing the young man aside.
    â€˜What do you want this
     time?’
    â€˜Your wife must have told you that I
     visited her yesterday when you were out.’
    â€˜Are you telling me that you searched
     our lodgings?’ He laughed; it was a nervous, painful little snigger. ‘Did
     you find what you were looking for?’
    When the inspector said, ‘Yes,’
     Gérard looked at him in alarm.
    â€˜You see, at a
     moment when your wife’s back was turned, my attention was attracted by a pot
     plant. I’m a bit of a gardener in my spare time, and something about that plant
     pot didn’t look quite natural to me. Sure enough, this is what I found in the
     soil, which had been freshly turned over.’
    And he showed the young man a small key held
     in the hollow of his hand – a key that would open the front door of Juliette
     Boynet’s apartment.
    â€˜Strange, isn’t it?’ he
     went on. ‘Such a coincidence … Back in my office a little later, I found a
     locksmith waiting for me, a locksmith who lives and works only a hundred metres from
     here. He wanted to tell me that he had made a similar key hardly two weeks
     ago.’
    â€˜So what does that prove?’
    Gérard was trembling, looking desperately
     round as if in search of aid, and his glance fell on his sister’s coffin as the
     black-clad men were hoisting it into the hearse.
    â€˜Are you going to arrest
     me?’
    â€˜I don’t know yet.’
    â€˜Well, if you questioned the locksmith
     you must know who gave me that key.’
    Cécile had given it to him; the
     locksmith’s statement left no doubt about that.
    â€˜On Monday 25 September,’ he had
     said, ‘a young woman of about thirty came to my workshop with a Yale key to the
     front door of an apartment, asking me to make her a copy of it. I asked her to leave me
     the key as a model, but she said she needed it because it was the only key to that lock
     she had, so I took an imprint. She came back for
the second key next day and paid me twelve francs
     seventy-five. It was only when I read in the newspapers about Cécile Pardon, who had
     just been murdered, and particularly when I remembered her slight squint, that I
     …’
    The funeral procession was setting off; the
     master of ceremonies hurried over to Gérard, gesticulating, and Maigret said in an
     undertone, ‘We can talk about this later.’
    Gérard and his sister Berthe were placed
     right behind the hearses, but they had not gone ten metres before the Monfils family,
     competing with them for precedence, moved up to walk beside the brother and sister.
    The Boynets and Machepieds, who were