Read Online Maigret in Montmartre by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page A

to change his clothes.
    “Are you going out again?”
    “I shall probably be out for part of the night.”
    “Have they found the Countess?”
    (The papers had said nothing as yet about the murder in the Rue Victor-Massé).
    “Yes. Strangled.”
    “Well, don’t catch cold. According to the wireless, it’s going to freeze and there’ll probably be ice on the roads to-morrow morning.”
    He took a small glass of brandy before leaving, and went on foot as far as the Place de la République, to get a breath of fresh air.
    His first idea had been to let young Lapointe deal with Arlette’s case; but on second thoughts he felt that would be cruel in the circumstances, and decided to leave it to Janvier.
    Janvier would be hard at it now. Armed with a photo of Arlette, he would be making the round of all the cheap hotels and lodging-houses in Montmartre, with special attention to the small places that let rooms by the hour.
    Fred, of Picratt’s, had hinted that Arlette, like the other women, sometimes went off with a client at closing time. The concierge of her house had been positive that she never brought anyone home with her. But it was unlikely that she went far. And if she had a permanent lover, perhaps she met him at some hotel.
    Maigret had told Janvier to take the opportunity of inquiring about a man called Oscar, about whom the police had no information and whose name the girl had only mentioned once. Why had she—apparently—regretted her mention of him and lapsed into silence afterwards?
    Being shorthanded, Maigret had left Inspector Lognon in the Rue Victor-Massé, where the photographers would have finished their work by now; probably the body had been removed while he was at dinner.
    When he reached the Quai des Orfèvres, the lights were out in most of the offices. Young Lapointe was in the Inspector’s room, going through the papers found in the Countess’s drawer, which he had been told to examine.
    “Found anything, my boy?”
    “I haven’t finished yet. All this stuff is in confusion and it’s difficult to sort it out. Besides, I’m checking everything as I go along. I’ve made several phone calls already, and I’m expecting several others—including one from the flying squad at Nice.”
    He held up a postcard photograph of a big, opulent-looking place overlooking the Baie des Anges. The house was built in the worst sham-oriental style, complete with minaret, and the name, The Oasis, was printed in one corner of the card.
    “According to these papers, she was living here with her husband fifteen years ago.”
    “She’d have been under thirty-five then.”
    “Here’s a photo of the two of them, taken at that time.”
    It was an amateur snapshot, showing the couple standing at the front door of the villa; the woman had two huge borzois on a leash.
    Count von Farnheim was a small, dried-up man with a little white beard; he was well-dressed and wore a monocle. The woman was buxom and good-looking—the type that men would turn to stare at.
    “Do you know where the marriage took place?”
    “At Capri, three years before this photo was taken.”
    “How old was the Count?”
    “Sixty-five at the time of the marriage. It only lasted three years. He bought The Oasis as soon as they got back from Italy.”
    The papers were a jumble of bills, yellow with age, much-stamped passports, cards of admittance to the casinos at Nice and Cannes, and even a bundle of letters. Lapointe had not had time to look at these; they were written in an angular, rather Germanic script, and signed ‘Hans’.
    “Do you know what her maiden name was?”
    “Madeleine Lalande. She was born at La Roche-sur-Yon, Vendée, and at one time she was in the chorus at the Casino de Paris.”
    Lapointe seemed to look upon his present job as almost a penance.
    “Nothing’s turned up, I suppose?” he inquired after a pause. He was obviously thinking of Arlette.
    “Janvier’s seeing to it. I shall be taking a hand