The Hotel Majestic by Georges Simenon Read Free Book Online Page B

mimosa everywhere, under a brilliant July 14 sun, on the engines, on the carriages, on the station railings. And crowds of holidaymakers in light clothes, the men in white trousers . . .
    Dozens of them were pouring out of a local train, wearing peaked caps, with brass instruments under their arms. He was hardly out of the station before he ran into another band, already rending the air with martial notes.
    It was an orgy of light, sound, colour. With flags, banners and oriflammes flying on all sides, and everywhere, the golden yellow mimosa, filling the whole town with its all-pervading, sweetish scent.
    â€œExcuse me, sergeant,” he asked a festive-looking policeman, “can you tell me what it’s all about?”
    The man looked at him as though he had landed from the moon.
    â€œNot heard of the Battle of Flowers?”
    Other brass bands were winding through the streets, making for the sea, which could be seen from time to time, lying, pastel blue, at the end of a street.
    Later he remembered a little girl dressed as a pierrette, being dragged hurriedly along by her mother, probably in order to get a good place for the pageant. There would have been nothing unusual about it if the little girl hadn’t worn a strange mask over her face, with a long nose, red cheeks and drooping Chinese moustache. Trotting along on her chubby little legs . . .
    He had no need to ask the way. Going down a quiet street towards the Croisette he saw a sign: BRASSERIE DES ARTISTES. A door farther on: HOTEL. And he saw at a glance what kind of hotel it was.
    He went in. Four men dressed in black, with rigid bow ties and white dickeys, were playing belote , while waiting to go and take up their positions as croupiers in the casino. By the window, there was a girl eating sauerkraut. The waiter was wiping the tables. A young man, who looked as though he was the proprietor, was reading a newspaper behind the bar. And from outside, from far and near, on all sides, came echoes of the brass bands, and a stale whiff of mimosa, dust kicked up by the feet of the crowd, shouts and the honking of hooters . . .
    â€œA half!” grunted Maigret, at last able to take off his heavy overcoat.
    He found it almost embarrassing to be as darkly clad as the croupiers.
    He had exchanged glances with the proprietor as soon as he came in.
    â€œTell me, Monsieur Jean . . .”
    And Monsieur Jean was clearly thinking . . .
    â€œThat one’s probably a cop . . .”
    â€œHave you had this bar a long time?”
    â€œI took it over nearly three years ago . . . Why?”
    â€œAnd before that?”
    â€œIf it’s of any interest to you, I was barman at the Café de la Paix, in Monte Carlo . . .”
    Barely a hundred metres away, along the Croisette, were the luxury hotels: the Carlton, the Miramar, the Martinez, and others . . .
    It was clear that the Brasserie des Artistes was a back-stage prop, as it were, to the more fashionable scene. The whole street was the same in fact, with dry-cleaning shops, hairdressers, drivers’ bistros, little businesses in the shadow of the grand hotels.
    â€œThe bar’s open all night, is it?”
    â€œAll night, yes . . .”
    Not for the winter visitors, but for the casino and hotel staff, dancers, hostesses, bellboys, hotel touts, go-betweens of all kinds, pimps, tipsters, or nightclub bouncers.
    â€œAnything else you want to know?” Monsieur Jean asked curtly.
    â€œI’d like you to tell me where I can find someone called Gigi . . .”
    â€œGigi? . . . Don’t know her . . .”
    The woman eating sauerkraut was watching them wearily. The croupiers got up: it was nearly three o’clock.
    â€œLook, Monsieur Jean . . . Have you ever had any trouble over fruit machines or anything like that? . . .”
    â€œWhat’s that to do with you?”
    â€œI ask because if you’ve ever been convicted, the case will be much more serious . . .