Maigret's Holiday by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page A

without hurrying, and
then a slight incident occurred. A door opened above their heads. For Maigret, it was
just a door, since he was not familiar with the layout of the rooms, but the doctor had
already recognized the sound of that particular door. He frowned. They heard footsteps
on the stair carpet, beyond the first bend. They were light, faltering steps, the steps
of someone who was no more familiar with the house than Maigret.
    The person coming down must have heard them
and leaned over the banister. They looked up, and saw a girl’s small head. Their
eyes met, only for a second, and there was panic in the eyes of the visitor who
dithered, as if she was about to go back upstairs to avoid them.
    Instead, she suddenly darted forwards and
they saw all of her on the landing, a tall, skinny girl of around fourteen, whose legs
were too spindly, wearing a slightly faded cotton frock. Why was Maigret particularly
struck by a little coloured-bead bag which she clutched nervously?
    She seemed to be calculating her move,
assessing how much room she had to pass them, and then she made adash
for it. Keeping her face averted and staying close to the wall, she slipped past them,
raced down the stairs and almost banged into the front door, groping frantically for the
door knob, as in a nightmare when you are being pursued by danger and you run into a
blank wall.
    The doctor swung round at the same time as
Maigret. The door opened, an oblong of brighter light appeared and swallowed up the
girl.
    That was all. It was nothing. Bellamy looked
up again. Wondered whether someone was on the landing watching them. He was taken aback,
vexed, anxious perhaps?
    Maigret could sense that there was something
unforeseen, something inexplicable about this encounter.
    Bellamy resumed his ascent. Now they could
see the door the girl had come out of, but it was shut. They walked past it, down a wide
corridor, and Bellamy pushed open another door much further along.
    â€˜Come in, monsieur. Make yourself
comfortable. It goes without saying that if you feel hot, you may remove your
jacket.’
    They were in a vast study lined with books.
As they entered, they were dazzled by the sun pouring in through the three big bay
windows. Bellamy, with a movement that must have been habitual, lowered the venetian
blinds and the light softened and was transformed into a golden dust.
    Above the fireplace was a magnificent
portrait of a woman, an oil painting, and there was a photograph of the same woman in a
silver frame on the desk.
    The doctor picked up the intercom and waited
for a few moments.
    â€˜Is that you, Mother?
You don’t need me?’
    A piercing voice came out of the receiver,
and because it was so loud, the speech was garbled and Maigret was unable to catch a
single word.
    â€˜I’m busy at the moment, yes.
Would you send Francis to me?’
    They were silent until the arrival of the
butler in a white linen jacket.
    â€˜I shan’t ask you if you’d
like a whisky … Or a port either, no doubt? … Would you like a glass of dry
Pouilly? … A bottle of Pouilly, Francis … The usual for me
…’
    He glanced quickly at some envelopes lying
on his desk, without opening them.
    â€˜Would you excuse me for a
moment?’
    He left the room on the heels of the butler.
Was it to ask him about the girl they had met on the stairs? Was he going into the room
on the landing and would he, on his return, call the woman in the photograph and the
portrait?
    Chief Inspector Mansuy had not been
exaggerating. Even among the crowds in the street, it would have been impossible not to
notice her. And yet the most striking thing about her was an extraordinary simplicity.
Her demeanour was calm, modest. She seemed shy, scared of people staring at her. Her
initial instinct must be fear of everything that was new or unfamiliar.
    She had big, light-blue, almost violet eyes
and a childlike face, and yet she was very much a woman, and