Maigret Gets Angry by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

very delicate. In short—’
    ‘In short,’ broke in Maigret, in his
most ingratiating tone, ‘I wonder what on earth I’m doing here.’
    He covertly watched Charles Malik and caught his
little tremor of delight.
    That was exactly what they had wanted him to say.
What was he doing there, in fact? No one had invited him, other than an old woman of eighty-two
who wasn’t completely compos mentis.
    ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say
that,’ Charles Malik corrected him, very much the gentleman, ‘given that you are a
friend of Ernest’s, I think it would be better—’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘Yes … I think it would be fitting,
or rather desirable, that you do not overly encourage my mother-in-law in these ideas which
… that—’
    ‘You are convinced, Monsieur Malik, that
your daughter’s death was absolutely natural?’
    ‘I think it was an accident.’
    He was blushing, but had replied firmly.
    ‘And what about you, madame?’
    The handkerchief was just a tiny ball in her
hand.
    ‘I think the same as my husband.’
    ‘In that case, clearly …’
    He was giving them hope. He could sense them
swelling with the hope that they were going to be forever rid of his burdensome presence.
    ‘… I am obliged to accept your
brother’s invitation. Then, if nothing happens, if no new developments require my presence
…’
    He rose, almost as ill-at-ease as they were. He
was eager to be outside, to take a deep breath of fresh air.
    ‘So I’ll see you in a little
while,’ Charles Malik was saying. ‘I apologize for not showing you out, but I still
have things to do.’
    ‘Don’t mention it. My humble
respects, madame.’
    He was still in the grounds, walking down
towards the Seine, when he was struck by a noise. It was that of the handle of a rural telephone
turning, with the short ring signalling that the call had been heard.
    ‘He has telephoned his brother to report
back to him,’ thought Maigret.
    And he believed he could guess what was being
said:
    ‘Phew! He’s leaving. He promised. As
long as nothing happens at lunch.’
    A tug-boat was pulling its eight barges towards
the Haute Seine, and it was a tug-boat with a green triangle, an Amorelle and Campois tug-boat;
the barges were also Amorelle and Campois.
    It was only half past eleven. He couldn’t
face going to L’Ange, where there was nothing for him to do. He walked
along the riverbank mulling over his confused thoughts. He paused
like a sightseer in front of Ernest Malik’s luxury pontoon. He had his back to the
Maliks’ residence.
    ‘Well! Maigret?’
    It was Ernest Malik, dressed this time in a grey
salt-and-pepper suit and wearing white kid shoes and a panama hat.
    ‘My brother has just telephoned
me.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Apparently you have already had enough of
my mother-in-law’s nonsense.’
    There was something suppressed in his voice,
something emphatic in his eyes.
    ‘If I understand correctly, you want to get
back to your wife and your lettuce patch?’
    Then, without knowing why (perhaps that is what
is known as inspiration), Maigret, making himself heavier, thicker, more inert than ever,
replied:
    ‘No.’
    Malik reacted. Despite all his sang-froid, he
could not help himself. For a moment, he looked like someone trying to swallow his saliva, and
his Adam’s apple visibly rose and fell two or three times.
    ‘Ah! …’
    A brief glance about them, but he wasn’t
planning to push Maigret into the Seine.
    ‘We still have a good while ahead of us
before the guests arrive. We usually lunch late. Come into my study for a moment.’
    Not a word was spoken as they crossed the
grounds.
Maigret glimpsed Madame Malik arranging
flowers in the vases in the drawing room.
    They skirted the house, and Malik walked ahead of
his guest into a fairly vast study, with deep leather armchairs and walls decorated with model
ships.
    ‘You may smoke.’
    He carefully shut the door and half-lowered the
Venetian blinds, because the sun was streaming