Read Online The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon - Free Book Online
Authors: Georges Simenon
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not yet begunâthe night porter had been seen going along the corridors, in his outdoor clothes. No one knew what he was doing there. Everyone had enough to do himself without bothering about what was happening elsewhere.
The night porter was called Justin Colleboeuf. He was a quiet, dull little man, who spent the night alone in the foyer. He didnât read. There was no one to talk to. And he didnât go to sleep. He sat there, on a chair, for hour after hour, staring straight ahead of him.
His wife was the concierge at a new block of flats in Neuilly.
What was Colleboeuf doing there at half past four in the afternoon?
Zebio, the dancer, had gone to the cloakroom to put on his dinner-jacket. Everyone was going about his business. Ramuel had come out of his booth several times.
At five oâclock, Prosper Donge had gone along to the cloakroom. He took off his white jacket and put on his own jacket and coat, and collected his bicycle.
Then a few minutes later a bellboy went into the cloakroom. He noticed that the door of locker 89 was slightly open. The next minute the whole hotel was alerted by his yells.
In the locker, folded over itself, in a grey overcoat, was the body of the night porter. His felt hat was at the back of the cupboard.
Like Mrs. Clark, Justin Colleboeuf had been strangled. The body was still warm.
Meanwhile, Prosper Donge, on his bike, peacefully passed through the Bois de Boulogne, crossed the Pont de Saint-Cloud, and got off his bicycle to go up the steep road to his house.
âA pastis!â Maigret ordered, as there didnât seem to be anything else on the counter.
Then he got into the train, his head as heavy as it had been when he was a child, after a long day in the country, in the blazing sun.
5
SPIT ON THE WINDOW
They had been travelling for some time. Maigret had already taken off his jacket, tie and stiff collar, as the compartment was once again too hot; it was as though hot air, and the smell of the train, was oozing from everywhereâwoodwork, floor, seats.
He bent to unlace his shoes. Not content with his free first class pass, he had taken a couchette; too bad if anyone objected. And the guard had promised him that he would have his compartment to himself.
Suddenly, as he was still bending over his shoes, he had the unpleasant feeling that someone was looking at him, from close to. He looked up. There was a pale face peering through the window from the corridor. Dark eyes. A large mouth, badly made up, or rather enlarged, by two streaks of red applied at random, which had then run.
But the most noticeable thing about the face was its expression of dislike, hatred. How had Gigi got there? Before Maigret could put on his shoe again, the girlâs face puckered in disgust and she spat on to the window, in his direction, then went back down the corridor.
He remained impassive, and got dressed. Before leaving the compartment, he lit a pipe, as if for moral support. Then he went down the corridor, from carriage to carriage, assiduously looking in each compartment. The train was a long one. Maigret walked through at least ten coaches, bumped into the partitions, had to disturb fifty or more people.
âSorry . . . Sorry . . .â
He came to where the carpet ended. The third class compartments. People were dozing six to a side. Others were eating. Children stared into space.
In a compartment with two sailors from Toulon who were going âupâ to Paris, and an old couple who were nodding off, mouths agape, the woman clutching her basket on her lap, he found Gigi, huddled in a corner.
He hadnât noticed, earlier, in the corridor, how she was dressed. He had been so surprised that he had only taken in that it wasnât the Gigi of the Brasserie des Artistes, with her wandering gaze and slack mouth.
Wrapped in a cheap fur coat, her legs crossed, revealing down-at-heel shoes and a large ladder in her stocking, she stared straight ahead of her.
The night porter was called Justin Colleboeuf. He was a quiet, dull little man, who spent the night alone in the foyer. He didnât read. There was no one to talk to. And he didnât go to sleep. He sat there, on a chair, for hour after hour, staring straight ahead of him.
His wife was the concierge at a new block of flats in Neuilly.
What was Colleboeuf doing there at half past four in the afternoon?
Zebio, the dancer, had gone to the cloakroom to put on his dinner-jacket. Everyone was going about his business. Ramuel had come out of his booth several times.
At five oâclock, Prosper Donge had gone along to the cloakroom. He took off his white jacket and put on his own jacket and coat, and collected his bicycle.
Then a few minutes later a bellboy went into the cloakroom. He noticed that the door of locker 89 was slightly open. The next minute the whole hotel was alerted by his yells.
In the locker, folded over itself, in a grey overcoat, was the body of the night porter. His felt hat was at the back of the cupboard.
Like Mrs. Clark, Justin Colleboeuf had been strangled. The body was still warm.
Meanwhile, Prosper Donge, on his bike, peacefully passed through the Bois de Boulogne, crossed the Pont de Saint-Cloud, and got off his bicycle to go up the steep road to his house.
âA pastis!â Maigret ordered, as there didnât seem to be anything else on the counter.
Then he got into the train, his head as heavy as it had been when he was a child, after a long day in the country, in the blazing sun.
5
SPIT ON THE WINDOW
They had been travelling for some time. Maigret had already taken off his jacket, tie and stiff collar, as the compartment was once again too hot; it was as though hot air, and the smell of the train, was oozing from everywhereâwoodwork, floor, seats.
He bent to unlace his shoes. Not content with his free first class pass, he had taken a couchette; too bad if anyone objected. And the guard had promised him that he would have his compartment to himself.
Suddenly, as he was still bending over his shoes, he had the unpleasant feeling that someone was looking at him, from close to. He looked up. There was a pale face peering through the window from the corridor. Dark eyes. A large mouth, badly made up, or rather enlarged, by two streaks of red applied at random, which had then run.
But the most noticeable thing about the face was its expression of dislike, hatred. How had Gigi got there? Before Maigret could put on his shoe again, the girlâs face puckered in disgust and she spat on to the window, in his direction, then went back down the corridor.
He remained impassive, and got dressed. Before leaving the compartment, he lit a pipe, as if for moral support. Then he went down the corridor, from carriage to carriage, assiduously looking in each compartment. The train was a long one. Maigret walked through at least ten coaches, bumped into the partitions, had to disturb fifty or more people.
âSorry . . . Sorry . . .â
He came to where the carpet ended. The third class compartments. People were dozing six to a side. Others were eating. Children stared into space.
In a compartment with two sailors from Toulon who were going âupâ to Paris, and an old couple who were nodding off, mouths agape, the woman clutching her basket on her lap, he found Gigi, huddled in a corner.
He hadnât noticed, earlier, in the corridor, how she was dressed. He had been so surprised that he had only taken in that it wasnât the Gigi of the Brasserie des Artistes, with her wandering gaze and slack mouth.
Wrapped in a cheap fur coat, her legs crossed, revealing down-at-heel shoes and a large ladder in her stocking, she stared straight ahead of her.
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