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Authors: Georges Simenon
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they didn’t want me to take responsibility for …’
Now Maigret stopped peering at the world
through his lashes. He turned to his companion, his face somewhat flushed by the heat
and by somnolence. His pupils seemed
a little confused, but after a few
seconds took on their usual sharpness.
‘That’s right!’ he said
as he stood up. ‘Waiter! How much is that?’
‘Allow me.’
‘No, I insist.’
He tossed a few notes on to the table.
Yes, it was an hour he would remember
well, because he was tempted simply not to bother, to let everything go, like everyone
else, to take things as they came.
And the weather was glorious!
‘Are you off? … Have you got
something in mind?’
No! His head was too full of sun, of
languor. He didn’t have the slightest thing in mind. And, as he didn’t want
to lie, he murmured:
‘William Brown was
murdered!’
And he thought to himself:
‘And none of them could give a
damn!’
None of these people basking in the sun
like lizards, who would be spending the evening at the Golden Rain Gala.
‘I’m off to work!’ he
said.
He shook Boutigues’ hand. He walked
off. He stopped as a 300,000-franc car drove past with a slip of an eighteen-year-old
girl at the wheel; she looked straight ahead and frowned.
‘Brown was murdered …’
he continued to repeat.
He was learning not to underestimate the
South. He turned his back on the Café Glacier. And, in order not to lapse into
temptation again, he started to dictate to himself, as if to a subordinate:
‘Find out what
Brown was doing on Friday afternoon between two and five.’
So he would have to go to Cannes! On the
bus!
And he stood waiting, his hands in his
pockets, pipe between his teeth, a grumpy look on his face, beneath a streetlamp.
6. The Shameful Companion
For the next few hours, Maigret devoted
himself to some dreary legwork of the sort he normally delegated to junior officers. But
he felt the need to move, to give himself the illusion of decisive action.
In Vice they knew about Sylvie – she was
on their books.
‘I’ve never had any problems
with her,’ said the sergeant who was in charge of her neighbourhood.
‘She’s a quiet one. Has a check-up pretty regularly …’
‘And the Liberty Bar?’
‘You’ve heard about it? A
strange joint. It’s intrigued us for a while, and indeed intrigues a lot of other
people. Almost every month we get an anonymous tip-off about it. At first we suspected
Big Jaja of selling narcotics. We put her under surveillance, and I can vouch for the
fact it isn’t true … Others made out that the back room was used as a
meeting place for people with certain proclivities …’
‘I know that’s not
true!’ said Maigret.
‘Yes … The truth is even odder
… Jaja attracts these old types who don’t want anything out of life except
to get drunk in her company. Besides, she has a small pension, as her husband died in an
accident …’
‘I know!’
In another department, Maigret got some
information on Joseph.
‘We’re
keeping an eye on him, because he’s a regular at the racetrack, but we’ve
never made anything stick.’
Maigret was drawing a blank right across
the board. He started to walk around town with his hands in his pockets and that
stubborn look that usually expressed that he was in a bad mood.
He began by visiting the luxury hotels,
where he checked the registers. In between, he had lunch at a restaurant next to the
station, and by three in the afternoon he knew that Harry Brown had not slept in Cannes
on either the Tuesday or the Wednesday night.
It was pathetic. Doing something for the
sake of doing something!
‘Brown Junior might have come from
Marseille by car and might have left the same day …’
Maigret went back to Vice, where he picked
up the photo of Sylvie they had on file. He already had the picture of William Brown in
his pocket,
Now Maigret stopped peering at the world
through his lashes. He turned to his companion, his face somewhat flushed by the heat
and by somnolence. His pupils seemed
a little confused, but after a few
seconds took on their usual sharpness.
‘That’s right!’ he said
as he stood up. ‘Waiter! How much is that?’
‘Allow me.’
‘No, I insist.’
He tossed a few notes on to the table.
Yes, it was an hour he would remember
well, because he was tempted simply not to bother, to let everything go, like everyone
else, to take things as they came.
And the weather was glorious!
‘Are you off? … Have you got
something in mind?’
No! His head was too full of sun, of
languor. He didn’t have the slightest thing in mind. And, as he didn’t want
to lie, he murmured:
‘William Brown was
murdered!’
And he thought to himself:
‘And none of them could give a
damn!’
None of these people basking in the sun
like lizards, who would be spending the evening at the Golden Rain Gala.
‘I’m off to work!’ he
said.
He shook Boutigues’ hand. He walked
off. He stopped as a 300,000-franc car drove past with a slip of an eighteen-year-old
girl at the wheel; she looked straight ahead and frowned.
‘Brown was murdered …’
he continued to repeat.
He was learning not to underestimate the
South. He turned his back on the Café Glacier. And, in order not to lapse into
temptation again, he started to dictate to himself, as if to a subordinate:
‘Find out what
Brown was doing on Friday afternoon between two and five.’
So he would have to go to Cannes! On the
bus!
And he stood waiting, his hands in his
pockets, pipe between his teeth, a grumpy look on his face, beneath a streetlamp.
6. The Shameful Companion
For the next few hours, Maigret devoted
himself to some dreary legwork of the sort he normally delegated to junior officers. But
he felt the need to move, to give himself the illusion of decisive action.
In Vice they knew about Sylvie – she was
on their books.
‘I’ve never had any problems
with her,’ said the sergeant who was in charge of her neighbourhood.
‘She’s a quiet one. Has a check-up pretty regularly …’
‘And the Liberty Bar?’
‘You’ve heard about it? A
strange joint. It’s intrigued us for a while, and indeed intrigues a lot of other
people. Almost every month we get an anonymous tip-off about it. At first we suspected
Big Jaja of selling narcotics. We put her under surveillance, and I can vouch for the
fact it isn’t true … Others made out that the back room was used as a
meeting place for people with certain proclivities …’
‘I know that’s not
true!’ said Maigret.
‘Yes … The truth is even odder
… Jaja attracts these old types who don’t want anything out of life except
to get drunk in her company. Besides, she has a small pension, as her husband died in an
accident …’
‘I know!’
In another department, Maigret got some
information on Joseph.
‘We’re
keeping an eye on him, because he’s a regular at the racetrack, but we’ve
never made anything stick.’
Maigret was drawing a blank right across
the board. He started to walk around town with his hands in his pockets and that
stubborn look that usually expressed that he was in a bad mood.
He began by visiting the luxury hotels,
where he checked the registers. In between, he had lunch at a restaurant next to the
station, and by three in the afternoon he knew that Harry Brown had not slept in Cannes
on either the Tuesday or the Wednesday night.
It was pathetic. Doing something for the
sake of doing something!
‘Brown Junior might have come from
Marseille by car and might have left the same day …’
Maigret went back to Vice, where he picked
up the photo of Sylvie they had on file. He already had the picture of William Brown in
his pocket,
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