14 - (Maigret) The Flemish Shop, page 12
“Will you tell him that…?”
But Maigret had turned away and was already on the landing. Without answering, he walked downstairs, greeted once more by the all-pervading smell of the Flemish shop, with that trace of cinnamon which brought back old memories. A bright line of light shone under the sitting-room door, whose panels picked up the vibrations of the music.
Maigret turned the handle and went in, astonished to find Anna on his heels, for he had not heard her follow him downstairs.
“What sort of a conspiracy have you two been plotting?” asked Dr. Van de Weert jokingly. He had just lit an enormous cigar, which he was sucking like a suckling baby.
“Please excuse us. Mademoiselle Anna was asking my advice about a journey that she seemed to be contemplating.”
Marguerite had stopped playing as they came in.
“Are you really, Anna?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m in no hurry about it. But one of these days…”
Madame Peeters looked up from her knitting with a slightly uneasy look.
“I’ve filled up your glass, Monsieur le commissaire. I know you won’t refuse another glass of our old Schiedam.”
Machère, with puckered forehead, was trying hard to guess what had been going on.
As for Joseph, his face was flushed with the schnapps, of which he had drunk several glasses in quick succession.
“Would you like to do me a favour, Mademoiselle Marguerite? Will you play me the Song of Solveig again—for the last time?”
And turning to Joseph:
“You turn over the pages for her.”
It was sheer perversity on Maigret’s part, like pressing on an aching tooth with the tip of one’s tongue to make it ache the harder.
From where he was standing, his glass of Schiedam in his hand, his elbow on the mantelpiece, Maigret towered over the others—Madame Peeters leaning over the table within the glare of the lamp; Van de Weert smoking his cigar and stretching out his little legs; Anna standing against the wall.
And, at the piano, Marguerite playing and singing, with Joseph to turn over the pages.
The top of the piano was covered by a piece of embroidery on which stood a number of framed photographs: Joseph, Anna, and Maria at various ages from infancy upwards.
“Que Dieu veuille encore…”
But it was still Anna herself who engrossed Maigret’s attention. For he could not resign himself to the idea that she had beaten him. He was hoping for something to happen, though he had no idea what.
At any rate he would have liked some sign from this woman who had called him to the rescue. Perhaps a quiver of the lips or a tear. Or she might leave the room precipitately, unable to face him any longer.
The first verse was over, and nothing had happened. Edging up to the inspector, Machère whispered:
“Are we staying much longer?”
“A few minutes.”
As these words were exchanged, Anna watched them closely across the table, wondering whether some trap was being laid for her.
“… pour ne plus me quitter …”
The last chords had hardly died out. Madame Peeters, her white head bent over her work, murmured:
“I’ve never wished any harm to anybody… We’re all in God’s keeping… It would have been a terrible thing if those two children…”
But she was too moved to go on. She wiped away a tear from her cheek with the stocking she was knitting.
And Anna still stood, quietly staring at Maigret. Machère was visibly losing patience.
“Come on,” said the inspector. “You’ll excuse our rushing off, won’t you? My train leaves at seven…”
Everybody stood up. Joseph’s eyes flitted hither and thither, avoiding Maigret’s above all. Machère groped for some suitable leave-taking and finally stammered:
“I must apologize for having suspected you… But you’ll admit that appearances… And if Cassin hadn’t made off…”
“Will you show the gentlemen out, Anna?”
“Yes, Mother.”
The three of them crossed the shop. It was locked up, being Sunday. But a tiny lamp, which shone on the brass scale-pans, was enough to show them the way.
Machère shook Anna’s hand almost effusively.
“Once more… I’m so sorry…”
For a few seconds Anna and Maigret eyed each other in silence. Then she muttered:
“You needn’t worry… I shan’t stay here.”
All along the quay, Machère never stopped talking, but Maigret only caught one or two snatches.
“… now that we know who did it, I can go back to Nancy…”
“I wonder what she meant?” thought Maigret. “I shan’t stay here… Will she really have the courage;…”
He looked at the Meuse, across which glittered the broken reflections of the lights on the other bank. One light, brighter than the others, came from the factory, where old Piedbœuf would later on be baking his potatoes in the cinders at the bottom of the stove.
They passed the little side-street. There was no light in the Piedbœuf’s house.
* * *
Chapter XI
THE LAST OF ANNA
« ^
DIDN’T you bring it off this time?”
Madame Maigret was surprised to see her husband come home in such a bad temper. She felt the shoulders of his overcoat after helping him to take it off.
“You’ve been wandering about in the rain again. One of these days you’ll go down with rheumatism, and then you’ll be in a nice mess… What was it all about? A murder?”
“A family affair.”
“And that girl who came to see you?”
“Girl indeed! Give me my slippers, will you?”
“All right! Have it your own way! I won’t ask any more questions! At least not on that subject… Did you have decent meals at Givet?”
“Decent meals? I really don’t know.”
It was quite true. He had only the vaguest memories of what he’d eaten.
“Well, guess what I’ve made for you.”
“Guiches.”
It wasn’t very difficult, considering that the whole flat smelt of it.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, ma chérie. … And now, tell me all the news. There was no more bother about the furniture, I suppose?”
Why were his eyes constantly reverting to the same corner, of the room, where there was an empty space? He was quite unconscious of it till his wife said to him:
“What’s the matter? You seem to be looking for something.”
Then he exclaimed out loud:
“Of course! The piano!…”
“What piano?”
“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand… Your guiches are marvellous…”
“It wouldn’t be much good being Alsatian if you couldn’t make guiches. … Only, if you go on like that, there’ll be precious little left for me… Talking about pianos, the people on the fourth floor…”
A year later, Maigret entered the premises of a firm of exporters in the Rue Poissonnière. He had been summoned on the discovery of a forged banknote.
The showrooms were enormous and packed with goods, but the offices were small and unpretentious.
“I’ll send for the note,” said the head of the firm, ringing a bell.
Maigret’s eye wandered, and he was vaguely conscious of a grey skirt approaching the desk. Beneath it were cotton stockings. Then he raised his eyes and gazed at the face that was bending over the desk.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Anna.”
The exporter saw Maigret’s eye follow her out.
“She looks a bit fierce,” he explained, “but you couldn’t wish for a better secretary. She does just precisely the work of two: all the correspondence, and the accounts as well.”
“Have you had her long?”
“Ten months.”
“Is she married?”
“Oh no! Far from it. That’s her one little failing—a detestation of the masculine sex. One day a business acquaintance, who had come to see me, tried to take liberties, and she gave him just one look that fairly shrivelled him up. You ought to have seen it…
“She’s here at eight o’clock sharp, if not earlier. And she’s always the last to go… I think she must be a foreigner, as she has a slight accent, but she’s not the sort one asks a lot of questions…”
“Would you mind if I had a word with her?”
“By all means. I’ll call her in again.”
“No. I’d rather it was in her own room.”
Maigret went through a glass-panelled door. A small office whose windows looked out on to a yard full of lorries. The whole house vibrated with the ceaseless flow of cars and buses along the Rue Poissonnière.
Anna was calm, calm as she had been when bending over her employer’s desk, calm as he had always known her. Her age would now be twenty-seven, but anybody would have taken her for well over thirty. She had faded. There was no longer any freshness in her features or her complexion.
A few years more, and she would look middle-aged. A few more still, and she would look positively old.
“How’s your brother?”
She looked away without answering, at the same time fidgeting with her blotter.
“Is he married?”
She merely nodded.
“Happy?”
At that word, the tears that Maigret had waited for a year ago came at last. Her throat swelled.
“He’s taken to drink… Marguerite’s expecting a baby.”
She threw the words at him, as though she held him personally responsible for everything.
“Is he getting on in his profession?”
“He set up on his own, but it wasn’t a success. He’s now taken a post in Rheims where he only gets a thousand francs a month…”
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, or rather jabbed at them furiously.
“Maria?”
“She died a week before taking the veil.”
The telephone bell rang, and it was in another voice that Anna answered, as she automatically pulled a pad towards her and picked up a pencil:
“Yes, Monsieur Worms… Certainly… Tomorrow evening… I’ll cable them at once… By the way, we’ve sent you a letter about that consignment of wool. I’m afraid there are one or two complaints… No. I’ve no time now. It’s fully explained in the letter…”
She rang off. Her employer was standing in the doorway, looking from one to the other. The inspector returned with him to his room.
“What did I tell you?… Honest as the day, and as for competence… You can tell in a moment, can’t you?”
“Where does she live?”
“I can’t give you her address offhand. But I know it’s a women’s hostel run by some society or other… But… I’m beginning to be scared. Don’t tell me you’ve had dealings with her already in your official capacity. I shouldn’t care very much about having a secretary who’d been mixed up in anything criminal…”
“You needn’t worry,” answered Maigret slowly. “It wasn’t in my official capacity.”
And then more briskly:
“Now! About this note—you found it…”
But as he listened to the exporter’s story he had one ear pricked for the sounds in the next room. She was telephoning again.
“No, monsieur. He’s engaged at.the moment. This is Mademoiselle Anna speaking. I think I can tell you anything you want to know…”
Gustave Cassin of the Etoile Polaire was never heard of again.
"Les Roches Grises"
Antibes (Alpes-Maritimes)
January 1932
—«»—«»—«»—
[scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]
[for a complete bibliography of all 103 episodes of The Maigret Saga, check out Steve Trussel’s amazing fan site at http://www.trussel.com/f_maig.htm ]
[November 05, 2006—v1 html proofed and formatted]
Georges Simenon, 14 - (Maigret) The Flemish Shop
