Cécile is Dead by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online

mistaken?’ asked the tenant quietly, still in the doorway. ‘As
     it happens, inspector, I have just come from your office. I know this is not a good
     time, but I also know what has happened.’
    A name rose to Maigret’s lips.
     Monsieur Charles … he suddenly felt sure that there was some connection between
that name and the man before him. What did
     they recall to his mind, for goodness’ sake? A little bar and café, its regular
     customers …
    â€˜Is there something urgent you want to
     tell me?’
    â€˜Well … That’s to say I thought
     … If you’d take the trouble of coming up to my apartment for a moment? May I,
     Madame Benoit? Forgive me for asking you to climb up four floors, inspector. I have just
     been to Quai des Orfèvres, where I learned about that poor girl Cécile … I admit it came
     as a shock.’
    Maigret rose to his feet and followed
     Monsieur Dandurand to the stairs.
    â€˜I could see that you recognized me
     without remembering who I was … We’d better hurry; the light will soon go
     out.’
    He looked for a key in his pocket and put it
     into the lock. Looking up, Maigret saw the shadowy outline of Nouchi leaning over the
     banisters. Next moment a gob of spit fell to the landing with a dull splosh.
    Monsieur Dandurand must be a chilly soul. He
     wore an overcoat thicker and heavier than Maigret’s, and a woollen scarf wrapped
     round his neck. His appearance was lacklustre and not particularly attractive, in the
     manner of old bachelors of a certain age, and his apartment itself seemed the right
     setting for a man on his own who was getting on in years, with a pipe that had gone cold
     and bed linen that was less than spotless.
    â€˜Let me have a minute and I’ll
     put on the light.’
    His study could have belonged to a lawyer or
     a businessman. Dark furniture, black wooden bookshelves full of
legal tomes, green filing cabinets, with periodicals and
     files lying on the tables.
    â€˜I think you smoke, don’t
     you?’ he asked Maigret.
    Dandurand himself had a dozen pipes
     carefully arranged on his desk, and he filled one of them after pulling down the blind
     over the window.
    â€˜Don’t you remember me yet?
     It’s true that we met only twice, once at Albert’s in Rue Blanche
     …’
    â€˜Yes, now I do remember, Monsieur
     Charles …’
    â€˜And the second time …’
    â€˜In my office at Quai des Orfèvres,
     eight years ago, when I had to ask you to explain certain things. I must admit that you
     had answers to all my questions.’
    A cold, icy smile on an icy face, where only
     the rather prominent nose was slightly pink.
    â€˜Please sit down. I wasn’t here
     this morning.’
    â€˜May I ask where you were?’
    â€˜I realize, now that I know what has
     happened, that telling you that may be held against me. However, I am in the habit of
     spending some time at the Palais de Justice. A lawyer’s old habits die hard, and
     after …’
    â€˜After you were struck off the list of
     practising advocates at Fontenay-le-Comte.’
    A vague gesture, as if the man were agreeing
     that he was right, but the matter was of little importance. The former provincial lawyer
     went on, ‘Since then I have been spending most of my time at the Palais. Today
     there was a strange case in Court Thirteen, a case of extortion among members of the
     same family. Maître Boniface, representing the son-in-law …’
    Monsieur Dandurand,
     formerly Maître Dandurand, who had lived in one of the oldest town-houses in Fontenay,
     had a habit of cracking his fingers, which seemed to need oiling.
    â€˜Would you mind leaving your finger
     joints alone and telling me why you went to my office?’ sighed Maigret, lighting
     his pipe.
    â€˜Excuse me … when I left home at about
     eight this morning I had no idea of what had