Read Online The Carter of ’La Providence’ by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online Page B

were any boats going down the Marne that needed me, it struck me as unusual. And then I found
this on the towpath just by it.’
    The man was tiresome, for he kept pulling funny faces and looking back at his companions, who were following at a distance.
    But the object he produced from his pocket was of the greatest interest. It was a finely worked enamel badge. On it was a kedge anchor and the initials ‘YCF’.
    â€˜Yachting Club de France,’ said the pilot. ‘They all wear them in their lapels.’
    Maigret turned to look at the yacht, which was clearly visible some two kilometres away. Under the words
Southern Cross
he could just make out the same initials: YCF.
    Paying no further attention to the man who had given him the badge, he walked slowly to the bridge. On his right, the Épernay road stretched away in a straight line,
still glistening with last
night’s rain. Traffic drove along it at high speeds.
    To the left, the road formed a bend as it entered the village of Dizy. On the canal beyond, several barges were lying up, undergoing repairs, just by the yards owned by the Compagnie Générale de Navigation.
    Maigret walked back the way he’d come, feeling the tension mounting. The public prosecutor’s officials would be arriving soon, and for an hour or two there would be the usual chaos, questions, comings and goings and a spate of wild
theories.
    When he was level with the yacht, everything was still all closed up. A uniformed officer was pacing up and down a little distance away, telling bystanders to move along, but failing to prevent two journalists from Épernay taking pictures.
    The weather was neither fine nor foul. A luminous grey morning sky, unbroken, like a frosted glass ceiling.
    Maigret walked across the gangplank and knocked on the door.
    â€˜Who is it?’ came the colonel’s voice.
    He went in. He was in no mood to argue. He saw the Negretti woman, wearing no more clothes than before, hair hanging down over her face and neck, wiping away her tears and snivelling.
    Sir Walter was sitting on the bench seat, holding out his feet to Vladimir, who was helping him on with a pair of chestnut-brown shoes.
    Water had to be boiling somewhere on a stove because there was the hiss of escaping steam.
    The two bunks slept in by the colonel and Gloria were still unmade. Playing cards were scattered on the table beside a map of France’s navigable waterways.
    And still there was that elusive, spicy smell which evoked bar, boudoir and secret amours. A white canvas yachting cap hung from the hat stand next to a riding crop with an ivory handle.
    â€˜Was Willy a member of the Yacht Club de France?’ asked Maigret in as neutral a tone as he could manage.
    The way the colonel shrugged his shoulders told him his question was absurd. And so it was. The YCF is one of the most exclusive clubs.
    â€˜But I am,’ Sir Walter said casually. ‘And of the Royal Yacht Club in England.’
    â€˜Would you mind showing me the jacket you were wearing last night?’
    â€˜Vladimir …’
    He now had his shoes on. He stood up, bent down and opened a small cupboard, which had been turned into a liquor cabinet. There was no whisky in sight. But there were other bottles of spirits, over which he hesitated.
    Finally he brought out a bottle of liqueur brandy and murmured offhandedly:
    â€˜What will you have?’
    â€˜Not for me, thanks.’
    He filled a silver goblet which he took from a rack above the table, looked for the siphon, and frowned darkly like a man all of whose habits have been turned upside down and who feels hard done by.
    Vladimir emerged from the bathroom with a black
tweed suit. A nod from his master instructed him to hand it to Maigret.
    â€˜The YCF badge was usually pinned to the lapel of this jacket?’
    â€˜Yes. How long are they going to be over there? Is Willy still on the floor of that café?’
    He had emptied his