gravediggers shovelled the earth into the grave in a regular rhythm, and, as it
filled up, the sound became more muffled. They had placed the wreath and the two
bouquets on the neighbouring grave while they worked. And Sylvie stood turned towards
them, staring fixedly, her lips pale.
Jaja was getting impatient. She was
waiting for the other two to leave so that she could talk to Maigret. She wiped her
brow, because it was hot. She must have been having difficulty standing.
‘Yes … I’ll be seeing
you soon …’
The black veils headed for the exit. Jaja
approached with a huge sigh of relief.
‘Is that them? … Was he really
married?’
Sylvie held back, still watching the
grave, which was now nearly filled in.
And Boutigues was the same bag of nerves.
He didn’t dare come to listen to the conversation.
‘Was it the son who paid for the
coffin?’
It was obvious that Jaja was ill at
ease.
‘What a strange funeral!’ she
said. ‘I don’t know why, but I’d never imagined it like that … I
wouldn’t even have been able to cry …’
Now the emotion hit her. She looked at the
cemetery and succumbed to some undefined malaise.
‘It wasn’t
even a sad occasion! … You’d have thought it was …’
‘You’d have thought it was
what?’
‘I don’t know … It was
as if it wasn’t a real funeral.’
She stifled a sob, dried her eyes and
turned towards Sylvie.
‘Come … Joseph is waiting for
us …’
The cemetery caretaker was sitting in his
doorway, slicing an eel.
‘What do you think?’
Boutigues was concerned. He too had the
vague feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Maigret lit his pipe.
‘I think William Brown was
murdered!’ he replied.
‘Obviously!’
They were wandering round the streets,
where the shops had already drawn canopies over their windows. The barber from that
morning was sitting outside his door, reading his newspaper. In Place Macé they spotted
the two women from Cannes and Joseph, waiting for the bus.
‘Fancy a quick one?’ suggested
Boutigues, indicating the café terrace.
Maigret accepted. He was filled by an
almost overwhelming laziness. A succession of images flashed across his retinas, all
confused, and he made no attempt to sort them into any order.
On the terrace of the Glacier, for
example, he half closed his eyes. The sun was baking his eyelids. His intertwined
eyelashes formed a grill of shadow, behind
which people and objects
took on an almost fairy-tale appearance.
He saw Joseph helping Jaja to haul herself
up on to the bus. Then a small man dressed all in white, with a colonial helmet on his
head, walked by slowly, leading a chow chow with a purple tongue.
Other images became mixed up with the real
ones: William Brown, at the wheel of his old car, driving his women from shop to shop,
sometimes with only his pyjamas on under his overcoat and with stubble on his chin.
By this time the son would be back at the
Provençal, in his luxury suite, dictating cables, answering the telephone, pacing up and
down with his regular stride.
‘It’s an odd business!’
sighed Boutigues, who had to fill every silence, as he crossed and uncrossed his legs
first one way, then the other. ‘What a shame they forgot to inform the
organist!’
‘Yes! William Brown was murdered
…’
It was for his own sake that Maigret
repeated this, to convince himself that, in spite of everything, a drama really had
occurred.
His detachable collar felt tight. His
forehead was damp. He looked with relish at the large cube of ice floating in his
drink.
‘Brown was murdered … He left
the villa, as he did every month, to go to Cannes. He left his car at the garage. He
visited a bank or some business to collect the monthly allowance that his son provided
for him. Then he spent a few days at the Liberty Bar.’
A few days of warm
laziness like the one that had
filled up, the sound became more muffled. They had placed the wreath and the two
bouquets on the neighbouring grave while they worked. And Sylvie stood turned towards
them, staring fixedly, her lips pale.
Jaja was getting impatient. She was
waiting for the other two to leave so that she could talk to Maigret. She wiped her
brow, because it was hot. She must have been having difficulty standing.
‘Yes … I’ll be seeing
you soon …’
The black veils headed for the exit. Jaja
approached with a huge sigh of relief.
‘Is that them? … Was he really
married?’
Sylvie held back, still watching the
grave, which was now nearly filled in.
And Boutigues was the same bag of nerves.
He didn’t dare come to listen to the conversation.
‘Was it the son who paid for the
coffin?’
It was obvious that Jaja was ill at
ease.
‘What a strange funeral!’ she
said. ‘I don’t know why, but I’d never imagined it like that … I
wouldn’t even have been able to cry …’
Now the emotion hit her. She looked at the
cemetery and succumbed to some undefined malaise.
‘It wasn’t
even a sad occasion! … You’d have thought it was …’
‘You’d have thought it was
what?’
‘I don’t know … It was
as if it wasn’t a real funeral.’
She stifled a sob, dried her eyes and
turned towards Sylvie.
‘Come … Joseph is waiting for
us …’
The cemetery caretaker was sitting in his
doorway, slicing an eel.
‘What do you think?’
Boutigues was concerned. He too had the
vague feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Maigret lit his pipe.
‘I think William Brown was
murdered!’ he replied.
‘Obviously!’
They were wandering round the streets,
where the shops had already drawn canopies over their windows. The barber from that
morning was sitting outside his door, reading his newspaper. In Place Macé they spotted
the two women from Cannes and Joseph, waiting for the bus.
‘Fancy a quick one?’ suggested
Boutigues, indicating the café terrace.
Maigret accepted. He was filled by an
almost overwhelming laziness. A succession of images flashed across his retinas, all
confused, and he made no attempt to sort them into any order.
On the terrace of the Glacier, for
example, he half closed his eyes. The sun was baking his eyelids. His intertwined
eyelashes formed a grill of shadow, behind
which people and objects
took on an almost fairy-tale appearance.
He saw Joseph helping Jaja to haul herself
up on to the bus. Then a small man dressed all in white, with a colonial helmet on his
head, walked by slowly, leading a chow chow with a purple tongue.
Other images became mixed up with the real
ones: William Brown, at the wheel of his old car, driving his women from shop to shop,
sometimes with only his pyjamas on under his overcoat and with stubble on his chin.
By this time the son would be back at the
Provençal, in his luxury suite, dictating cables, answering the telephone, pacing up and
down with his regular stride.
‘It’s an odd business!’
sighed Boutigues, who had to fill every silence, as he crossed and uncrossed his legs
first one way, then the other. ‘What a shame they forgot to inform the
organist!’
‘Yes! William Brown was murdered
…’
It was for his own sake that Maigret
repeated this, to convince himself that, in spite of everything, a drama really had
occurred.
His detachable collar felt tight. His
forehead was damp. He looked with relish at the large cube of ice floating in his
drink.
‘Brown was murdered … He left
the villa, as he did every month, to go to Cannes. He left his car at the garage. He
visited a bank or some business to collect the monthly allowance that his son provided
for him. Then he spent a few days at the Liberty Bar.’
A few days of warm
laziness like the one that had
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