Félicie by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page B

Wait
a moment … I’ve gone and forgotten his name … A name like one of the months
… Février? …’
    â€˜Janvier.’
    â€˜That’s it! … He got on the
Rouen train. He couldn’t hang about … He thinks you could maybe get to Rouen to meet
the train … He said if you get a car …’
    â€˜Anything else?
    â€˜No, monsieur … I’ve done what
he asked … That’s the lot …’
    What does this mean? If Janvier has suddenly got
on a train to Rouen, then it can only be because Pétillon is on his way there. He hesitates
for a moment. Stepping out of the phone booth, which is stiflingly hot, he wipes his face under
the inquisitive gaze of the woman on the switchboard. A car, he should be able to find a car
…
    â€˜But the hell with it!’ he growls.
‘Just let Janvier handle it himself.’
    His search of the three rooms has yielded nothing
except Félicie’s diary. Lucas is still bored with kicking his heels outside Cape
Horn, and the people in the houses close by peep out at him through their curtains from time to
time.
    So instead of launching himself on the trail of
the strange nephew, Maigret has a snack on the terrace of the inn, savours his coffee, tops it
off with a glass of old marc and, heaving a sigh, gets back on his bike. As he passes, he hands
Lucas a packet of sandwiches and rides down the slope into Poissy.
    It doesn’t take him long to track down the
bar whereFélicie goes dancing on Sundays. It is a wooden structure on
the Seine. At this time of day, there’s no one there. It’s the owner himself, a
muscle man wearing a sweater, who asks what he wants. The two men recognize each other, and five
minutes later they are sitting at a table in front of a couple of liqueur glasses. It’s a
small world. The man, who spends Sundays collecting the money before each dance starts, used to
be a small-time fairground wrestler who has had a few run-ins with the police. He was first to
recognize the inspector.
    â€˜I’m guessing you’re not here
on my account? I’m straight these days and doing well, you know!’
    â€˜Of course … Of course,’ says
Maigret with a smile.
    â€˜As for the customers … No,
inspector, I don’t think there’s anything here for you … Errand girls,
kitchen-maids, a crowd of harmless kids who …’
    â€˜Do you know Félicie?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜A strange girl thin as a rake, with a
pointed nose, a stubborn look on her face, always dressed like a flag or a rainbow
…’
    â€˜The Parakeet!’
    Well, well! Old Lapie used to call Félicie a
cockatoo.
    â€˜What’s she done?’
    â€˜Nothing. I’d just like to know who
she used to meet when she came here.’
    â€˜Nobody, or near enough … My wife
– don’t beat your brains, you don’t know her, she’s the genuine article
– my wife, as I was saying, called her the Princess on account of the airs she gave
herself. What exactly was eating thechick? I never knew. She really did
show up like she actually was a princess. When she danced she was as stiff as a board. If you
asked her anything, she sort of gave the impression that she wasn’t what people thought
she was, that she came here incognito. All nonsense, of course! Oh, and she always sat at this
table, by herself. She’d sip her drink with her little finger sticking out. Her ladyship
didn’t dance with just anybody … Sunday … Ah! that reminds me
…’
    Maigret pictures the crowd on the dance-floor
which shakes, the racket of the accordion, the owner standing hands on hips waiting to pass
among the couples to collect the dance money.
    â€˜She was dancing with a guy I’ve seen
around some place. But where, I’m damned if I can recollect. Short, muscular, nose a bit
crooked … Anyway. All I know is that he was holding her