Read Online The Carter of ’La Providence’ by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
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there. He gave off a faint whiff of eau de Cologne.
âItâs Willy!â he said in a hoarse whisper.
Then he said a few words in English, too fast for Maigret to understand, bent down and touched the face of the young man.
The girl who had woken the inspector was leaning on the café door for support, sobbing. The lock-keeper came running.
âPhone the police at Ãpernay â¦Â And a doctor â¦â
Even Madame Negretti came out, barely decent, with nothing on her feet. But she did not dare leave the bridge of the yacht and called to the colonel:
âWalter! Walter!â
In the background were people who had arrived unseen: the driver of the little train, a group of navvies and a man with a cow which went ambling along the towpath by itself.
âTake him inside the café â¦Â And donât touch him more than you have to.â
He was obviously dead. The elegant suit, now no more than a limp rag, trailed along the ground when the body was lifted.
The colonel followed slowly. His dressing gown, blue slippers and ruddy scalp, across which the wind stirred a few long wisps of hair, made him an absurd but also priestly figure.
The girlâs sobs came faster when the body passed in front of her. Then she ran off and shut herself away in the kitchen. The landlord was yelling down the phone:
âNo, operator! â¦Â Police! â¦Â Hurry up! â¦Â Thereâs been a murder! â¦Â Donât hang up! â¦Â Hello? Hello?â
Maigret kept most of the onlookers out. But the barge men who had discovered the body and helped to fish it out had all crowded into the café where the tables were still littered with glasses and bottles from the night before. The stove roared. A
broom was lying in the middle of the floor.
The inspector caught a glimpse of Vladimir peering in through one of the windows. Heâd had time to put his American sailorâs forage cap on his head. The barge men were talking to him, but he was not responding.
The colonel was still staring at the body, which had been laid out on the red stone flags of the café floor. Whether he was upset or bored or scared it was impossible to say. Maigret went up to him:
âWhen was the last time you saw him?â he asked.
Sir Walter sighed and seemed to look around him for the man he usually relied on to answer for him.
âItâs all so very terrible â¦â he said eventually.
âDidnât he sleep on board last night?â
With a gesture of the hand, the Englishman pointed to the barge men who were listening to them. It was like a reminder of the conventions. It meant: âDo you think it right and proper for these people â¦â
Maigret ordered them out.
âIt was ten oâclock last night. We had no whisky left on board. Vladimir hadnât been able to get any at Dizy. I decided to go to Ãpernay.â
âDid Willy go with you?â
âNot very far. He went off on his own just after the bridge.â
âWhy?â
âWe had words â¦â
And as the colonel said this, his eyes still drawn to the pinched, pallid, twisted features of the dead man, his own face crumpled.
Was it because he had not slept enough and that his flesh was puffy that he looked more upset? Perhaps. But Maigret would have sworn that there were tears lurking under those heavy eyelids.
âDid you have a bust-up?â
The colonel gave a shrug, as if resigning himself to hearing such a vulgar, ugly expression.
âWere you angry with him about something?â
âNo! I wanted to know â¦Â I kept saying: âWilly, youâre a rotter â¦Â But youâve got to tell me â¦ââ
He stopped, overcome. He looked around him so that he would not be mesmerized by the dead man.
âDid you accuse him of murdering your wife?â
He shrugged and sighed:
âHe went off by himself.
âItâs Willy!â he said in a hoarse whisper.
Then he said a few words in English, too fast for Maigret to understand, bent down and touched the face of the young man.
The girl who had woken the inspector was leaning on the café door for support, sobbing. The lock-keeper came running.
âPhone the police at Ãpernay â¦Â And a doctor â¦â
Even Madame Negretti came out, barely decent, with nothing on her feet. But she did not dare leave the bridge of the yacht and called to the colonel:
âWalter! Walter!â
In the background were people who had arrived unseen: the driver of the little train, a group of navvies and a man with a cow which went ambling along the towpath by itself.
âTake him inside the café â¦Â And donât touch him more than you have to.â
He was obviously dead. The elegant suit, now no more than a limp rag, trailed along the ground when the body was lifted.
The colonel followed slowly. His dressing gown, blue slippers and ruddy scalp, across which the wind stirred a few long wisps of hair, made him an absurd but also priestly figure.
The girlâs sobs came faster when the body passed in front of her. Then she ran off and shut herself away in the kitchen. The landlord was yelling down the phone:
âNo, operator! â¦Â Police! â¦Â Hurry up! â¦Â Thereâs been a murder! â¦Â Donât hang up! â¦Â Hello? Hello?â
Maigret kept most of the onlookers out. But the barge men who had discovered the body and helped to fish it out had all crowded into the café where the tables were still littered with glasses and bottles from the night before. The stove roared. A
broom was lying in the middle of the floor.
The inspector caught a glimpse of Vladimir peering in through one of the windows. Heâd had time to put his American sailorâs forage cap on his head. The barge men were talking to him, but he was not responding.
The colonel was still staring at the body, which had been laid out on the red stone flags of the café floor. Whether he was upset or bored or scared it was impossible to say. Maigret went up to him:
âWhen was the last time you saw him?â he asked.
Sir Walter sighed and seemed to look around him for the man he usually relied on to answer for him.
âItâs all so very terrible â¦â he said eventually.
âDidnât he sleep on board last night?â
With a gesture of the hand, the Englishman pointed to the barge men who were listening to them. It was like a reminder of the conventions. It meant: âDo you think it right and proper for these people â¦â
Maigret ordered them out.
âIt was ten oâclock last night. We had no whisky left on board. Vladimir hadnât been able to get any at Dizy. I decided to go to Ãpernay.â
âDid Willy go with you?â
âNot very far. He went off on his own just after the bridge.â
âWhy?â
âWe had words â¦â
And as the colonel said this, his eyes still drawn to the pinched, pallid, twisted features of the dead man, his own face crumpled.
Was it because he had not slept enough and that his flesh was puffy that he looked more upset? Perhaps. But Maigret would have sworn that there were tears lurking under those heavy eyelids.
âDid you have a bust-up?â
The colonel gave a shrug, as if resigning himself to hearing such a vulgar, ugly expression.
âWere you angry with him about something?â
âNo! I wanted to know â¦Â I kept saying: âWilly, youâre a rotter â¦Â But youâve got to tell me â¦ââ
He stopped, overcome. He looked around him so that he would not be mesmerized by the dead man.
âDid you accuse him of murdering your wife?â
He shrugged and sighed:
âHe went off by himself.
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