Read Online Maigret and the Spinster by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
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that sometimes five days would go by with not a single hearse, either of the luxury or of the plainer variety, being, taken out on the road, and that this lull might be followed by a period of hectic demand.
On this particular morning, the undertaker’s resources were fully stretched, so much so that one of the two horses harnessed to Juliette Boynet’s hearse was not trained for the job, and ten times at least attempted to break into a trot, thus imparting a somewhat jerky and hasty tempo to the procession, not at all in keeping with the funereal dignity of the occasion.
The arrangements for the funeral had been undertaken by a man named Monfils, an insurance agent from Luçon. No sooner had the press reported the murder of Juliette Boynet than he turned up in Paris, dressed in deep mourning (doubtless he had the outfit put by from some former occasion), and from then on this tall, thin, wan figure, sporting a red nose as a result of a cold caught on the train, was very much to the fore at all times.
He was Juliette Boynet’s first cousin.
“I know what I’m talking about, Chief Superintendent. It was understood from way back that she would leave us something, and she agreed to stand godmother to our eldest child…I’m sure there must be a will in existence. If none has been found, it may be that there are those who have an interest in causing it to disappear…What’s more, I intend to register my claim with the court…”
He had insisted on a grand funeral with all the trimmings, including the setting up of a memorial chapel in the apartment on the fifth floor, and the departure of the procession from the funeral parlor.
“We are not in the habit, in our family, of burying our dead on the cheap…”
This very morning he had been to the station to collect his wife, also in deep mourning, and his five sons, all with unruly fair hair, who were now following the coffin, each carrying his hat, in descending order of size.
The traffic was at its heaviest on the main roads at this time of day, trucks mostly returning from the central market in endless file, nose to tail. It was a clear, sunny day, but there was a sharp nip in the air. People were stamping their feet and keeping their hands in their pockets.
Maigret had not had any sleep the previous night. He had sat up with Lucas, keeping watch on his gang of Poles in the room overlooking Rue de Birague. During the past three days, ever since Cécile’s death, he had been gloomy and irritable. He was beginning to lose patience with the Poles, who were preventing him from giving his whole mind to the Bourg-la-Reine murders. By seven o’clock in the morning his mind was made up:
“You wait here! I’m going to pinch the first one to come out…”
“Watch it, Chief…They’re armed…”
He shrugged, went into the Hôtel des Arcades, mounted the stairs, and waited. A quarter of an hour later, the bedroom door opened. A giant of a man went to the stairs. Maigret flung himself upon him from behind, and the two men rolled over and over together until they reached the ground floor.
At last, having managed to fasten handcuffs on his quarry, the Chief Superintendent got up. He blew his whistle, and Inspector Torrence came running.
“Take him to the Quai…I’ll leave the job of grilling him to you…Keep at it till he talks…understood?…Take it in relays, if necessary. I want a full confession.”
He dusted himself down, and then went into a bar and had croissants and coffee laced with brandy at the counter.
Everyone in the Police Judiciaire knew that, at times like these, it was wiser not to cross him. Madame Maigret, for her part, dared not even ask him what time he would be home for his meals.
There he stood on the sidewalk, with his back to the window of the grocer’s, looking sullen and smoking his pipe in little angry puffs. The press had written up the case, and there was a small crowd of spectators, not to mention half a dozen reporters and
On this particular morning, the undertaker’s resources were fully stretched, so much so that one of the two horses harnessed to Juliette Boynet’s hearse was not trained for the job, and ten times at least attempted to break into a trot, thus imparting a somewhat jerky and hasty tempo to the procession, not at all in keeping with the funereal dignity of the occasion.
The arrangements for the funeral had been undertaken by a man named Monfils, an insurance agent from Luçon. No sooner had the press reported the murder of Juliette Boynet than he turned up in Paris, dressed in deep mourning (doubtless he had the outfit put by from some former occasion), and from then on this tall, thin, wan figure, sporting a red nose as a result of a cold caught on the train, was very much to the fore at all times.
He was Juliette Boynet’s first cousin.
“I know what I’m talking about, Chief Superintendent. It was understood from way back that she would leave us something, and she agreed to stand godmother to our eldest child…I’m sure there must be a will in existence. If none has been found, it may be that there are those who have an interest in causing it to disappear…What’s more, I intend to register my claim with the court…”
He had insisted on a grand funeral with all the trimmings, including the setting up of a memorial chapel in the apartment on the fifth floor, and the departure of the procession from the funeral parlor.
“We are not in the habit, in our family, of burying our dead on the cheap…”
This very morning he had been to the station to collect his wife, also in deep mourning, and his five sons, all with unruly fair hair, who were now following the coffin, each carrying his hat, in descending order of size.
The traffic was at its heaviest on the main roads at this time of day, trucks mostly returning from the central market in endless file, nose to tail. It was a clear, sunny day, but there was a sharp nip in the air. People were stamping their feet and keeping their hands in their pockets.
Maigret had not had any sleep the previous night. He had sat up with Lucas, keeping watch on his gang of Poles in the room overlooking Rue de Birague. During the past three days, ever since Cécile’s death, he had been gloomy and irritable. He was beginning to lose patience with the Poles, who were preventing him from giving his whole mind to the Bourg-la-Reine murders. By seven o’clock in the morning his mind was made up:
“You wait here! I’m going to pinch the first one to come out…”
“Watch it, Chief…They’re armed…”
He shrugged, went into the Hôtel des Arcades, mounted the stairs, and waited. A quarter of an hour later, the bedroom door opened. A giant of a man went to the stairs. Maigret flung himself upon him from behind, and the two men rolled over and over together until they reached the ground floor.
At last, having managed to fasten handcuffs on his quarry, the Chief Superintendent got up. He blew his whistle, and Inspector Torrence came running.
“Take him to the Quai…I’ll leave the job of grilling him to you…Keep at it till he talks…understood?…Take it in relays, if necessary. I want a full confession.”
He dusted himself down, and then went into a bar and had croissants and coffee laced with brandy at the counter.
Everyone in the Police Judiciaire knew that, at times like these, it was wiser not to cross him. Madame Maigret, for her part, dared not even ask him what time he would be home for his meals.
There he stood on the sidewalk, with his back to the window of the grocer’s, looking sullen and smoking his pipe in little angry puffs. The press had written up the case, and there was a small crowd of spectators, not to mention half a dozen reporters and
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