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Had she succeeded, on her own, in dragging herself out of the comatose state in which she had been that afternoon? Had someone given her something to take? Or possibly a new dose of cocaine had revived her?
    Maigret made no move. He watched her for a while, trying to sign to her; she still took no notice. So he opened the door.
    â€œWould you come out for a minute?”
    She hesitated. The two sailors were staring at her. Make a scene? She shrugged and got up to join him, and he shut the door.
    â€œHaven’t you had enough?” she hissed at him. “You should be pleased with yourself, shouldn’t you! You should feel proud of yourself! You took advantage of the fact that a poor girl was in the state I was in . . .”
    He saw that she was about to cry, that her garishly painted mouth was trembling, and turned away.
    â€œAnd you didn’t lose any time in locking him up, did you!”
    â€œTell me, Gigi. How do you know Prosper has been arrested?”
    A weary gesture.
    â€œHaven’t you heard? I thought the telephone tapping would see to that . . . It doesn’t matter if I tell you, because you’ll soon know . . . Charlotte telephoned Jean . . . Prosper had just got back from work when a taxi full of cops arrived and took him away . . . Charlotte’s in a terrible state . . . She wanted to know if I’d talked . . . And I did talk, didn’t I? I told you enough to . . .”
    A violent jolt of the train made her fall against Maigret, and she recoiled in horror.
    â€œI’ll be even with you yet! I swear! Even if Prosper did kill that dirty bitch Mimi . . . I’ll tell you something, superintendent . . . On my honour, the honour of a prostitute, a slut who has nothing to lose, I swear to you that if he’s condemned to death, I’ll find you and plug you full of holes . . .”
    She paused for a moment, scornfully. He didn’t say anything. He felt it wasn’t an empty threat, that she was just the type, in fact, to wait for him on some lonely street corner and empty her automatic into him.
    The two sailors were still watching them from the compartment.
    â€œGoodnight,” he sighed.
    He went back to his compartment, got undressed at last and lay down.
    The dimmed light was shedding a vague blue glow on the ceiling. Maigret lay there with his eyes shut, frowning.
    One question kept worrying him. Why had the examining magistrate ordered Prosper Donge’s arrest? What had the magistrate, who had not left Paris, and who did not know Gigi, or the Brasserie des Artistes, learnt? Why arrest Donge rather than Jean Ramuel or Zebio?
    He felt vaguely apprehensive. He knew the magistrate.
    He hadn’t said anything when he saw him arrive at the Majestic with the public prosecutor, but he had made a face, because he had worked with him in the past.
    He was a man of integrity, certainly, a good, family man even, who collected rare editions of books. He had a fine square-cut, grey beard. Maigret had once had to make a raid on a gambling den with him. It was in the daytime, when the place was empty. Pointing to the large baccarat tables shrouded under dust-covers, the magistrate had asked ingenuously: “Are those billiard tables?”
    Then, with the same naïveté of a man who has never set foot in a low dive, he had been amazed to discover three exits into three different streets, one of them leading via the basement to another building. He was even more astonished to learn from the account books that certain players were given large advances, because he didn’t know that in order to make people play, you have first to get them hooked.
    Why had the magistrate, whose name was Bonneau, suddenly decided to have Donge arrested?
    Maigret slept badly, waking up each time the train stopped, the noise and jolting of the carriages becoming mixed with his nightmares.
    When he got out of his compartment, at the Gare de Lyon, it was still dark and a fine, cold