Maigret's Holiday (8 page)

‘Neither her first name nor her
surname.'

‘Nor do you know where she
works?'

‘I don't even know if she has a
job.'

‘You do realize that Les Sables
d'Olonne has twenty
thousand souls and that the streets are
crawling with girls like the one you have just described?'

‘But I want to find this particular
one.'

‘In which neighbourhood did you meet
her?'

‘At Doctor Bellamy's.'

‘And you didn't ask him …
I'm sorry! I understand … That's already a clue, of course
…'

Maigret smiled, and slowly filled a fresh
pipe.

‘Look. I feel as though I'm
bothering you. I'm here on holiday, that's a fact. What is happening at Les
Sables d'Olonne is none of my business. And yet I'd give a lot to find that
girl.'

‘I can try.'

‘I don't know whether
she'll return to the doctor's house. To be honest, I don't think so.
But who knows whether she might go and hang around the house? It's highly likely
that tomorrow she'll be standing along the route of the funeral procession. Maybe
if you have a word with one of your men …'

Mansuy was beginning to worry.

‘Do you think he killed his
sister-in-law? The coroner's just telephoned me—'

‘And his report is negative, I'm
sure.'

‘Correct. You've heard? Her head
hit the road. Her body somersaulted a couple of times. It curled into a ball like a hare
when it's shot. But all the injuries are consistent with the tears and stains on
her clothes. She could have been pushed, of course, but without being hit, without her
defending herself …'

‘She wasn't pushed.'

‘So you believe it
was an accident?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You've just said that she
wasn't pushed …'

‘I know nothing,' sighed Maigret
who had become more solemn. ‘The fact is, I know no more than you do. Perhaps
less, because I don't know Les Sables d'Olonne. All the same, I'd like
to find that girl. I'd also like to have a private talk with Sister Marie des
Anges, which is even harder. Have you ever called a nun in for questioning?'

‘No,' replied the stocky
inspector, flabbergasted.

‘Me neither. I can only hope that
she'll write to me again.'

He was talking to himself, without taking
the trouble to enlighten his colleague.

‘Come and have a drink … By the
way, your Polyte yesterday, did he confess?'

‘He won't confess. He's
never confessed in his life. This is at least the tenth time we've caught him
red-handed and each time he hotly denies it.'

They stopped at a café full of regulars
and, all the way there, Maigret had continued to look about him on the off chance he
might spot the girl.

‘You see, Mansuy, there is something
we don't know, something that's not right, and I have a hunch that if we can
track down this girl …'

He ordered an aperitif instead of his usual
white wine. Then, as Mansuy insisted on buying a round, he downed another, on top of all
the white wines he'd drunk during the day. There was smoke all round him and the
haze of alcohol was so thick that it billowed out several metres on to the pavement.

‘Look, Mansuy
…'

He seized his colleague's arm.

‘I think it's more important
than it seems to find this girl … It's none of my business, I repeat …
It's not so much as a professional that I'm speaking …'

‘If you want us to go back to the
police station, I'll write a memo this evening.'

‘Do you know whether the
doctor's butler is married, whether he sleeps in the house?'

Poor Mansuy had never imagined that an
inspector from the Police Judiciaire could carry out an investigation in such a
manner.

‘I'll find out … I confess
I'd never worried about …'

Maigret was talking to himself:

‘It would be the way to find out
…'

Then to Mansuy:

‘Let's go back to your office,
yes … Don't hold it against me … I can't explain… I am so
certain that it would be better …'

They entered the secretary's office on
the ground floor, where there was a coffee tin on a little spirit stove.

‘Tell me, Dubois, do you know Doctor
Bellamy's butler, by any chance?'

‘Isn't he a fairly young, blond
fellow?'

It was Maigret who replied.

‘Yes, his name is Francis
…'

‘He's Belgian,' stated the
secretary. ‘I remember because he came two or three times to get his residence
permit stamped …'

‘Married?'

‘Wait …
He's on my list … I'll find him …'

It wasn't as straightforward as all
that. The list was nowhere to be found. The day secretary had left with the key to some
drawers. Eventually they found it where it should not have been.

‘Here we are …
Francis-Charles-Albert Decoin, born in Huy … age thirty-two … Married to
Laurence Van Offel, cook … She had her permit stamped too … Hold on …
Hôtel du Remblai … No, she left … Her most recent address was the
Hôtel Bellevue, where she was working as a kitchen girl as recently as two months
ago …'

Mansuy was still looking at Maigret
inquisitively. As they left the police station, he asked him timidly:

‘Are you really …'

He did not finish. He gave a sweeping
gesture that took in the town, the hotels. Was it possible that his distinguished
colleague intended to go from one improbable address to another, questioning porters and
chambermaids like a rookie inspector?

‘With your permission, I'll
instruct one of my men …'

Was the man serious? Just as Maigret felt he
had both feet on the ground? Why not bring in Sister Marie des Anges and Doctor Bellamy
too?

Maigret finally had something concrete to
do.

Something that was perhaps of no use, no
importance …

He thrust his hands in his pockets as if it
were the depths of winter, while his teeth clenched the stem of his pipe a little
harder.

‘You'll keep me informed?
… Should I look for this girl anyway? …'

Maigret forgot to answer
and shook Mansuy's hand as they parted company on a street corner, then headed for
the imposing building of the Hôtel Bellevue, the most luxurious establishment on Le
Remblai.

A kitchen girl, at least that would make a
change from nuns and neurologists.

‘Excuse me, porter … I'd
like to speak to Laurence Decoin who works in the kitchens …'

‘You'll have to go to the
service entrance … Turn left … You'll find an alleyway …
There's a door with frosted-glass panes and a goods lift … It's there
…'

A few moments later, Maigret, who
hadn't found anyone to let him in, went up a staircase stinking of urine behind
the scenes of the hotel, which reminded him of backstage in a little provincial theatre.
He stopped a giant of a butcher between two swing doors through which waiters were
dashing, and the latter looked at him with contempt:

‘What is it?'

‘I'd like to speak to Laurence
Decoin.'

Then the butcher became almost fierce.

‘And what else … Who's
asking for her, if you please, “young man”?'

‘A friend …'

‘Really? … Laurence!
…' he yelled. ‘Come here and let me introduce a friend… A friend
of yours, so he says …'

A chubby blonde came towards them, wiping
her hands on her apron, and it was clear that the doctor's young butler was no
longer of much importance in her life and that in any case she was scared to death of
the hairy butcher.

‘I don't know
who this man is, do you, Fernand?' she exclaimed in a strong accent.

‘Well, what do you have to say for
yourself, eh?'

He advanced, as solid and menacing as a
tank.

Maigret felt himself come alive again.

‘I apologize,' he said with the
utmost courtesy. ‘It is true that I do not know Madame, and that I have never seen
her. I simply want to ask her where I can meet her husband outside his employers'
house.'

She turned first of all towards Fernand,
triumphantly:

‘You see, you silly, jealous boy,
it's not what you thought …'

Then to Maigret:

‘Now what has Francis done?'

There was a door near them. It opened into a
long, narrow, dingily lit room with the fanlight placed too high, where the electric
lights burned all day. A table with two benches filled the entire length of the room,
like an army mess. It was the staff dining room where, at that moment, there were only
two waiters sitting at the far end, eating in silence. This was the room that Laurence
showed him into, so as not to get under the feet of the bustling waiters.

‘You're from the police,
aren't you? That doesn't worry me, mind you. It would even be a good thing
if he were in big trouble because that would help me get a divorce, wouldn't it,
Fernand?'

She was sturdy and on the short side, with a
slightly snub nose, but there was something fresh about her.

‘When I think that I'm the one
who has to pay for the
kid's upkeep with what I earn here,
because that loafer doesn't want to know—'

‘You don't live with
him?'

It was Fernand who answered, in order to dot
the ‘i's once and for all:

‘We've been together for two
years now.'

‘Do you happen to know whether he has
a room in town?'

The plump Laurence burst out laughing:

‘A room and all the rest too, you
mean! And his slippers by the bed …'

She suddenly grew suspicious:

‘You're not from the local
police?'

‘I am from Paris.'

‘Because anyone from around here would
know that Francis knocks about with La Popine—'

‘La Popine?'

‘Madame Popineau… The fishmonger
… The one who has a pretty shop on the corner of Rue de la République …
A tough bitch, you don't want to mess with her … People say she's
already worn out three husbands, even though they were strapping fellows. She's
kept busy visiting their graves on All Saints' Day … It won't be long
before poor Francis … I even wonder how the poor thing manages to satisfy her
… In any case, you're almost bound to find him at her place after ten
o'clock at night … Tell me, monsieur, is it serious?'

Maigret avoided replying in order to learn
more.

‘He can't help it … He
can't stop himself nicking little things … It's not even to sell them,
mind you … It's to
give them to women … Because he
always needs to impress them …'

She burst out laughing, giving Fernand a
knowing look:

‘You impress them with what you can,
isn't that right, monsieur?'

Maigret dined in a corner, all alone, and
he wasn't wearing exactly the expression they were familiar with at the Hôtel
Bel Air. Monsieur Léonard waited for him in vain for their nightly chat in the back
room. Once Maigret had finished eating, he went for a walk in the dark. The sky was
studded with light from the gas lamps and the waves were phosphorescent.

It was still too early, barely nine thirty.
He walked past the doctor's house and saw that the lights were on. Then he came to
the port, the little cafés where you have to go inside to sit down for a moment. He
would have found it hard to say what was going on in his mind. His thoughts were vague,
slightly disjointed. They began with Sister Marie des Anges. The calm convent atmosphere
that was rubbing off on Madame Maigret herself.

Then the doctor and his beautiful, genteel
house, his calm way of speaking and his piercing eyes.

Then, suddenly, a flaxen-haired girl sent
him to the sordid underbelly of the Hôtel Bellevue, and there was Fernand the
butcher, and the plump Laurence with her raucous laugh.

There were few passers-by in the narrow
streets, where there was the occasional yellowish oblong of a shop and most of the
windows were open. People went to bed early.
From the street you could
almost imagine them, tossing and turning in beds damp with sweat. Sometimes, passing a
dark window, he heard whisperings, so close that he felt as if he were intruding on
someone's privacy and was tempted to walk on tiptoe, like at the hospital.

He asked for Madame Popineau's house.
It stood at the end of the dock, in the new part of town, a fine house built of pretty
pink bricks. The shop's shutters were closed. It had its own front door, in
varnished oak, with a brass letterbox and door knob. He bent over and peeked through the
keyhole like when he was a child, and saw a light inside.