The Misty Harbour (17 page)

‘The governor is on
holiday.'

‘His deputy?'

‘He doesn't have one.
There's just me here.'

‘All right, then! Have the two
prisoners brought to the villa in one hour's time.'

The warder on the other end of the line
must have caught the sun himself. Perhaps had a Pernod or two. He forgot to ask
Maigret for his credentials.

‘OK, will you return them to
us?'

And Maigret yawned, stretched, filled
another pipe. But this pipe did not have the usual flavour.

‘Brown was killed, and the two
women …'

He set off on foot, walking slowly,
towards the villa. He passed the spot where the car had hit the rock. He almost
laughed. For it was precisely the sort of accident that happened to novice drivers.
A few zigzags before straightening up … Then, having achieved a straight
line, finding it impossible to turn …

The butcher appearing behind them in the
semi-dark … The two women starting to run with their too-heavy suitcases,
abandoning one by the roadside …

A limousine drove past, driven by a
chauffeur. An Asian face in the back: no doubt the maharajah … The sea was
red and blue, with a hint of orange in between … The electric lights were
coming on, still pale …

Maigret was all alone in this huge
panorama. He went up to the gate of the villa, like an owner returning home,
turned the key in the lock, left the
gate open and ascended the front steps. The trees were full of birds. The door
creaked – a sound that Brown must have been familiar with.

On the threshold, Maigret tried to
analyse the smell … Every house has its own smell … This one was
based on a strong perfume, probably musk … Then the odour of stale
cigars …

He switched on the electric light, then
went to the living room and sat down next to the wireless and the record-player, in
the seat where Brown must have sat, as it was the most worn chair.

‘He was murdered, and the two
women …'

The light was bad, but he spotted a
standard lamp which was plugged into an electric socket. It was covered by an
enormous lampshade made of pink silk. When he turned on the lamp, the room came to
life.

‘During the war, he worked for
military intelligence …'

That was well known. That is why the
local papers, which he had read on the train, were making such a big deal out of it.
The public loved the glamour and mystery of espionage.

Hence the idiotic headlines such as:

Some journalists saw the hand of the
Cheka, others the workings of the Secret Service.

Maigret looked
around and had the feeling that there was something missing. And he located it. What
was creating the chill was a large picture window, behind which the night was
turning stale. There was a curtain, so he closed it.

‘There! A woman in this armchair,
probably with a piece of sewing …'

And there it was: a piece of embroidery,
on a small table.

‘The other one in this
corner …'

And in the corner there was a book:
The Passions of Rudolf Valentino
 …

‘All that is missing is Gina and
her mother …'

He had to stare hard to make out the
gentle wash of the water along the rocks of the coastline. Maigret looked at the
portrait again, which bore the signature of a photographer in Nice.

‘No dramas!'

In other words, discover the truth as
quickly as possible to cut short the gossip of the press and public. There were
steps on the gravel in the garden. A bell with a very serious, very seductive ring
sounded in the hall. Maigret went to the door and could make out the figure of a man
in a kepi next to two female silhouettes.

‘You can go … I'll
take charge of them … Come in, ladies!'

He appeared to be receiving them. He
couldn't make out their features yet. On the other hand, he caught a strong
scent of musk.

‘I hope you believe us
now …' came a rather strained voice.

‘Of course! … Come in,
then … Make yourselves comfortable.'

They entered into the light. The mother
had a very lined face, plastered with a thick layer of make-up. She stood in the
middle of the living room and looked around her, as if checking that nothing was
missing.

The other one was more suspicious; she
observed Maigret, smoothed the folds of her dress and attempted a smile that she
intended to be alluring.

‘Is it true that they have brought
you down from Paris especially?'

‘Please, take your coats
off … Make yourselves at home …'

They still didn't understand what
was going on. It was as if they were strangers in their own house. They feared a
trap.

‘We're going to have a bit
of a chat, the three of us …'

‘Do you know something?'

It was the girl who had spoken. The
mother said sharply:

‘Be careful, Gina!'

In truth, Maigret was once again having
great difficulty taking his role seriously. The older woman, despite her make-up,
was a ghastly sight.

As for the girl, with her full, almost
too buxom figure squeezed into a dress of dark silk, she was a classic pseudo femme
fatale.

And the smell! That musky odour that
once more permeated the atmosphere of the room!

It evoked a concierge's lodge in a
small theatre.

Nothing dramatic, nothing mysterious.
The mother
doing her embroidery and
keeping an eye on her daughter. And the girl reading the adventures of
Valentino!

Maigret, who had returned to his seat in
Brown's armchair, watched them both with expressionless eyes but was
puzzled:

‘How on earth did a fellow like
Brown spend ten years with these two women?'

Ten years! Long days of unbroken
sunshine, the scent of mimosa, with the constant swell of the immense blue sea
beneath their windows, and ten years of quiet, interminable evenings, barely
disturbed by the murmur of waves on the shore, and the two women, the mother in her
armchair, the girl next to the lamp with the pink silk lampshade …

He mechanically played with the photo of
this Brown, who had the impertinence to resemble him.